Apathy
by doc100
Summary: Is there such a thing as "happily ever after"? Life doesn't always take us in the direction we plan. PLEASE READ THE AUTHOR'S NOTES!
1. Epilogue

**Apathy** by doc

_**Summary:**__ Life doesn't always take us in the direction we plan._

_Is there such a thing as "happily ever after"? For a couple as complex and divergent as Michael and Fi that course is likely to be neither smooth nor easy. Descriptors such as explosive, unexpected, turbulent, and fascinating are more likely to come to mind! This story is set in the future 5 years after the events in early season 6._

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_**PLEASE READ THE AUTHOR'S NOTES!**_

_**AN 1:**__ Just so no one is confused, I'm including a Gaelic legend with this story. I thought it might be fun to have a little ancient Irish folklore to set the stage and parallel both the current and backstory of our favorite couple. I spent days shifting through Irish history, customs and legends to locate the tale I'm currently using. The Gaelic legend I found fit perfectly for my intent, however, if any of you have spent time perusing 8__th__ to 12__th__ century Ireland then you know the country is a mix of Irish, English, Norman and Scottish influences. The Gaelic legend I'm using is actually Scottish. To have the folklore fit with my story, I've embellished extensively, changing/adding names, places, events and details, which do not appear in the original Scottish legend. In fact, at this point I would say "my" Gaelic legend only "loosely" follows the original in theme. So as not to spoil my story, I'll keep the name of the original legend a mystery until the very end._

_One other note about the format of my chapters, I LOVE pithy and meaningful quotes and sayings. I tend to introduce my stories and/or chapters with quotes that are particularly poignant. I make an effort to set them off from the actual story itself, but just thought I would mention this particular idiosyncrasy of mine, so no one is confused._

_**AN 2: **__Hello everyone, this is my first BURN NOTICE story, but I have written extensively for another fandom. Since most, if not all of you, are unfamiliar with me, I thought I'd let you know a little bit about my writing style. First, I __**LOVE**__ Burn Notice! It has been great fun watching Michael emerge from the isolated "world of spies" and reenter the "real world" of humanity. Over the course of 5 seasons we have seen him progress from being a very private and emotionally closed-off individual to someone who embraces his family and friends. He now loves and cares about "real people" rather than the "idea of people" as just assets._

_Second, I adore Michael and Fi. They have one of the most complex and dynamic relationships in entertainment right now. I find their juxtaposition of personalities enthralling. They both are driven to "right the wrongs," but from totally different perspectives. At first glance they seem so incompatible, but on closer inspection, their core values are very similar, they just go about their solutions in different manners. They "complete each other" to use that worn out phrase. That said, I doubt anything about their relationship is easy. They both have dynamic take-charge personalities, which often put them at odds. They aren't one of your typical romantic TV couples, which is why they are so captivating. Taking all that into consideration, I seriously doubt a long-term relationship/marriage would ever be easy for the two of them. In fact, Michael tried to tell her that from the start of their reunion (i.e. 'Broken Rules'). It is from that perspective this story was written. My previous readers knew to "trust me" in the care of a favorite couple, but since most of you have never read any of my previous works, I'll ask you to do the same. __**TRUST ME**__ and let the story develop, I promise not to disappoint those of you who adore this "explosive" couple! And yes, the pun is intended._

_**AN 3: **__Back to my writing style, I tend to write LONG stories, whether they are one-shots or multi-chapter tales. I love "words," by that I mean, I love to set the stage with evocative language, so the reader is taken right along for the ride with the characters. My favorite works of fiction use the setting to further the emotions and actions of the story. I want to "feel" the approaching storm or delight in the crystal, blue, rolling waves of the sea. My writing style emulates those features I find most mesmerizing. If you like "short and sweet," then I'll most likely lose you somewhere along the way._

_**AN 4**__: One last tidbit, I'm a physician. I practice neonatology (newborn intensive care). Since medicine is my life's work and joy, my stories often tend to drift toward medicine, injuries, hospital care, even if it's only a paragraph or two. Lucky for you, only a couple of my previous stories were based around the theme of illness, injury or treatment. I try to venture outside my "normal" world to explore other avenues. The reason I mention this point is that I may use a medical term, diagnosis or treatment you aren't familiar with. If you don't understand a fact related to medicine, please send me a note and I will make every effort to give further explanation. Now, if it's something other than medicine, oh like say weapons, spying, tactical maneuvers, and governmental agencies, I'll put forth my best effort to be accurate, but folks I make no promise to be knowledgeable or precise! In my previous fandom I had experts to help me with specifics related to military protocol, the law and aircrafts…no such luck here, folks! Sorry!_

_Okay, enough of my rambling. __**ON WITH THE STORY!**_

'_*****'**_

_Disclaimer: I don't own Burn Notice or any of the characters. I don't profit from them for sure, I wish! I just take them out and play with them on occasion before replacing them safe and sound back on the shelf._

_Special thanks to Mom, my faithful finder and keeper of all things related to spelling and grammar._

'_************'**_

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**Apathy**

_Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around. – Leo Buscagalia_

'_*****'**_

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**Epilogue**

_Long ago and far away, on a warm fall day, a fair lass strolled through the gardens near Ui Maino in the countryside of Ireland. The sun that day was full and bright, heating the autumn breeze as it scattered the loose ringlets of curls about her forehead. Securing the waist-length tresses back with a cord of golden silk, she lifted her face to the sun and smiled, as its hot rays blushed her cheeks to the color of crimson. Her nose tingled and twitched under the perfumed assault of the delicious floral fragrances surrounding her. A butterfly with gossamer wings flitted through the air, beckoning her further down the path to the rich green forest and the cooling waters of the River Shannon just beyond._

_She paused in her leisurely pursuit of her winged-companion to brush her fingers through the fading summer wildflowers. The green carpet of shamrocks, lying beneath her feet, tickled her delicate ankles and spurred her to delight, sending her lithe friend soaring high on a musical gust of laughter. She bent down in search of a lucky clover. Finding none to her liking, she ambled further into the flowered hillside, stopping to inhale the fragrances of periwinkle, cornflowers and Irish Sea aster._

_Returning to the trampled path, she spied a couple of large mounds of fairy roses standing sentinel at the entry to the forest. As she bent to study their variegated pink and white petals, she was halted by the most alluring scent. The most magnificent pure white Irish rose stood nary a foot's length from her touch. The bloom was larger than the span of her fingers, and she held her breath, lest she disturbed the bud's fragile petals. It was as white as the marriage garment of a virginal bride on her sacred wedding day. The center petals blushed with the faintest pink of a newborn's cheek, and the smell was of pure heaven. She reached out to pluck the delicate blossom, gently tucking it into the folds of her auburn hair._

_In that moment a deep, baritone voice boomed forth, startling her from her reverenced trance, "How dare you pick the flowers and stroll about the forest without my consent for passage!"_

'_*****'**_

_To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 1

_**AN:**__ I decided to post chapter 1 along with the epilogue, as the epilogue is so short. The first couple of chapters of this story are particularly long, as they set the stage for the rest of the tale. If you can survive the beginning, I promise a faster paced storyline in the remaining chapters!_

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**Part 1**

_I have a very strong feeling that the opposite of love is not hate – it's apathy. It's not giving a damn. If somebody hates me, they "feel" something…or they couldn't possibly hate. Therefore, there's some way in which I can get to them. – Leo Buscaglia_

_I would rather a romantic relationship turn into contempt than into apathy. The passion in the extremities makes it appear as though it once meant something. We grow from hot or cold, but lukewarm is the biggest insult. – Criss Jami_

'_*****'**_

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… "_How dare you pick the flowers and stroll about the forest without my consent for passage!"_

_The lass stumbled backward, nearly trampling the white rose, which had fallen from her hair. Retreating a few steps more, she peered into the darkness of the forest, before catching the sparkle of light reflected off a pair of bottomless blue eyes. The stranger before her was a man only slightly older than herself. He hovered over her by well more than a foot in stature and had a long mane of raven dark hair. He was clothed in a linen tunic the color of flax. A cloak of dark green, wrapped with a jewel-encrusted broach, nearly strangled his massive broad shoulders. A wide leather belt encircled his waist, securing a polished sword at his side. But his most impressive quality, the one that stole her breath way, was his cerulean blue eyes. Those eyes, which one-minute looked like the vibrant blue of the deep sea at rest, flashed to icy-gray when his anger grew and flashed and exploded all around her like fire on brittle-dry timber._

"_I am he who guards this forest and sees the peace is not disturbed!"_

_The young woman backed up further, "I'm sorry, your lordship. I meant no harm."_

_He reached down to retrieve the discarded rose and held it out with timid hand, "What is your name fair lass?"_

_The beautiful maiden moved with exquisite grace, as she stood to her full height. Brushing the stray pieces of leaves and petals, which had collected on her hem, she smiled cordially at the handsome stranger and extended her hand to accept the flower. "My name is Sarnait, I am the daughter of one of the chieftains from Ua Conchobhair in Connacht Kingdom; the loyal subject of my exalted king, Sir Rory O'Connor."_

_He noticed her fair features and her extraordinary eyes. They were the color of rich honey, rimmed in a green the shade of emeralds and speckled with pure gold. The stranger dropped to a knee and bowed his head in reverence, "I would gladly give all the roses of Ua Cellaig for the mere chance to spend another day in the presence of your beauty."_

_Sarnait was taken off guard by the gracious words of the stranger now bowed at her feet. Finally regaining her composure, she asked, "Kind sir, might I ask your name and station?"_

_The man, still kneeling in respect, replied, "I am Padraig O'Kelly."_

_Sarnait froze in place, her hands trembling, for she had heard of the ferocious exploits of one Padraig O'Kelly, the Elfin Knight, who was the champion and warrior of Ua Cellaig, the land of the fairies. Releasing a gasp barely louder than a whisper, she turned to flee…_

'_*****'**_

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Thursday Evening  
October 19, 2017  
The Glenanne-Westen Home  
Miami, Florida

Fiona dumped her armload of mail and packages on the main credenza just inside the door then returned to shake out the soggy umbrella on the front landing. She set it against the outside stucco wall of the porch, well clear of the battering rain, and slammed the front door. It was the third day in a row of torrential downpours bred of the current weather system, which had decided to set-up camp over the Miami metro area and refused to budge from its stationary course. It might not have been so bad, except the darned garage door opener was on the fritz again. Michael had promised to repair it, before he left for London, but true to form, the chores related to home never seemed to quite get done.

Kicking her heels off on the Persian rug of the front entry, she tiptoed across the marble floor, hoping not to leave streaks of water and mud on the pristine surface of the cream colored tiles. She was just too damn tired to clean up one more mess on this god forsaken horrible day. Reaching the kitchen, she slid the jacket from her arms & hung it up on the cubbies in the back hall by the garage service door. She had a repairman scheduled to come by the house in the morning to check on the garage door opener. Hopefully, by tomorrow night, she would be able to park in the shelter of the garage again. No more racing through raindrops with packages, groceries and such.

She flipped the overhead lights on in the kitchen, when she felt, more than noticed, the overwhelming dreariness of the room. Once daylight savings time ended, it always seemed as if the days grew dark earlier and earlier on each successive night of the autumn season. Throwing in the current bleak weather conditions, she swore she hadn't felt the warmth of sunshine on her fading skin for most of the nascent season.

Opening the freezer door, she scanned the shelves hoping to find some long lost gastronomical treasure. Early in their marriage, Michael had been the one to do most of the cooking. They had once signed up for a couple's gourmet cooking class, but as per their horrid routine, Michael was immediately called away on an urgent mission to regions unknown, and she was left to scratch the much anticipated culinary experience. She wound up registering for a single's version of the same course and actually enjoyed the lessons. It didn't hurt that her cooking partner ended up being a tall, dark and handsome gentlemen similar in appearance to her absentee husband. Nothing had happened, of course, but that didn't stop her from razing Michael during one of his rare, descriptionless phone calls. She'd even surprised him with a fancy meal, complete with candles and an ornate dessert upon his arrival home. It wasn't so much having to cancel the original class that had dismayed her; it was the chance to do something together. They found so little time to do things with each other these days. Sometimes she wondered why they'd even bothered to get married; their current life wasn't much different than their single days spent at the loft. In fact, currently it wasn't much different from when she'd first arrived in Miami some 10 years before.

She slammed the freezer shut and instead opened the refrigerator door of the Sub Zero. Reaching in, she retrieved a cup of yogurt and the bowl of fruit salad she had prepared the night before. Her appetite had long since gone south after the late meeting with her attorney. She was really only going through the motions of consuming the sustenance her body so intensely craved. It would be so much easier to slink back to the bedroom, slough her clothes off one-by-one, and slither into the shower. She debated putting the yogurt back and doing the aforementioned, when she thought better of it. She had paperwork to complete that evening, so the file could go out tomorrow by overnight express for delivery to London early on Monday. Sighing heavily, she dropped into a chair at the kitchen table and pulled the lid off the yogurt container. She really wasn't looking forward to the fireworks and discussion, which were likely to ensue sometime during the day on Monday, that was if he even cared to bother with such mundane aspects of normal civilian life. Those things, which seemed…hmmm, she paused for a moment, searching the recesses of her mind for just the right description. Ordinary! So merely ordinary, compared to the exciting day-to-day perils of being a spy. Lucky for her, she had the whole weekend to herself to anticipate and foster her eloquent rejoinders to his ire.

She shoveled a spoonful of the creamy blueberry substance into her mouth and stared out the back windows of the French doors. The sky had been gray all day, but now was almost frighteningly murky, as if something sinister was about to occur. "Perfect," she grumbled to herself, "…it matches my mood to a 't'."

Her eye caught sight of the pool, extending just beyond the French doors. It was within an inch of overflowing its borders due to the steady accumulation of rain. The flowers, on the other handy, were actually quite perky. It had been a long, hot, miserable summer. The rain gods had been stingy with precipitation throughout the previous 4 months. Even with the in-ground sprinkling system, the landscape had taken a beating. Of course, just when they didn't need it anymore, those self same gods had decided to open up the heavens in deliverance of the second great deluge.

Finishing the yogurt, she gave a sideways glance to the fruit salad, but thought better of it. Returning it to the fridge, she rinsed the yogurt cup in the sink and was just about to toss it into the recycling, when she paused to stare more closely at the container. Some advertising exec, in his infinite wisdom, had apparently thought it wise to use yogurt as a solicitation for couple's therapy or a date night out. She shook her head and muttered the line emblazed across the container, _"Satisfying for one, sexy for two."_

"Yogurt, sexy," she laughed, "…who would've thought."

It was at that exact moment a picture flickered through her mind of intense blue eyes expressing wordlessly a whole different kind of hunger and intensity, all the while serving her up a large dollop of delicious blueberry cream. He might have been offering her a snack, but his eyes were imploring it to be so much more. She had to admit that yogurt, in the right circumstance and with the right guy, could be hot damn sexy! Of course, that had been a different time, a different place and at least an eternity ago. That simple realization set her stomach to lurching and sent her mood plummeting from maudlin to down right despair.

With that, she crushed the yogurt cup into submission and tossed it into the trash. "Nothing so altruistic as recycling," she declared with little bravado, "…it's straight to garbage hellhole of life for you!"

She really did need to find a more suitable nutritional indulgence for her eating pleasure. One unladen with emotional baggage and stodgy memories. Such a shame too! Yogurt really was her perfect form of nourishment, and in an easy to carry package, to boot!

She tidied the counters and sink of her beautiful, high-end kitchen. She had such high hopes for the space, when they had bought the house. Now it was just another perfectly spotless and neglected room, in a way too big house for its usual solitary occupant.

"What a waste," she muttered as she turned out the light.

Wandering down a back hallway toward the master bedroom, she stopped to stare into the space. It was everything she had always wanted from the mahogany poster bed and furnishings to the silken bedding and drapes. One of her favorite possessions in the whole house was the upholstered chaise lounge sitting beside the expanse of back windows. She loved being able to kick back and relax with a good book and an iced tea on a lazy summer morn. And if truth be told, she had to own up to them utilizing that particular piece of furniture on more than one occasion, for "mapping out strategic battle plans and wagging explosive wars," to use one of her husband's favorite bedroom euphemisms.

"And he thought she was the one who used violence as foreplay," she scoffed into the empty room.

She was pulled as if on instinct toward the beloved chair, running her fingers over the soft surface, as she remembered happier times. Despite all their bravado and bluster, the only tactical warfare, which had transpired in this bedroom sanctuary, was of the passionate and tender kind. While the whispered word love rarely escaped his lips, even back than, she had no doubt of his heart's true emotion. In quiet moments together, he'd whisper her name, "Fiiiiii," with such tenderness and reverence that's she'd always imagined it was his substitute for "love." Pity he never called her by that name anymore. He usually summoned her with a simple "Fiona," when he said her name at all. "Fiona," it sounded just like Sam, Jessie, Barry or any other of his hundred assets. A tear escaped from her glistening eyes, as she tried to hold on to the cherished memories. It had been so long since they'd shared this private retreat.

She drifted toward the windows to close the plantation shutters and was stopped by the view of the ocean, barely visible in the ebbing light. The gray waves were churning high with crested peaks sending white foam smashing onto the small expanse of beach. It was already high tide, and the stormy waters had stirred up mounds of driftwood and seaweed, which now littered the sand all the way to the grassy dunes. The stormy gray of the sea reminded her of his eyes when he was in the throws of emotion, whether anger or love. She used to see herself in his eyes. Thinking back, she couldn't remember the last time she had noticed him looking at her in that way. These days his eyes looked…she searched for a descriptor, but came up with only one. Absent. They looked devoid of all emotion…ABSENT.

That thought scared her to her core. Shivering and racked with an icy sense of cold, she quickly secured the shutters and headed for the bathroom. If ever a hot shower was in order, the time had come.

'_***'**_

Emerging an hour later, scrubbed, shampooed and finally warm, she had to admit she felt almost human again. She fingered the soft cotton of her pajamas, as she tried to imagine their origin. The pants were long with loose elastic at the waist, the top, long sleeved with pearl button fasteners. The attire was certainly nothing she would have purchased for herself, hence the puzzle. She decided it was neither here nor there. They were warm and comfortable, just what was needed on such a stormy night.

She ambled back toward the kitchen to steep a hot mug of peppermint tea, an indulgence she especially loved on cold and dreary nights. While waiting for the teakettle to boil, she headed to the front hall to retrieve the mail and package she'd dumped earlier on the table. Passing through the great room, she paused to study the interior. When Michael and she had gone looking for their first house, they couldn't agree on architecture, size or location. He'd wanted small, secure and modest, figuring the less ostentatious their abode, the less likely they were to be noticed. "Always the spy," she quipped into his ear at the time. She, on the other hand, wanted something roomy with style and access to water. It was less about the house and more about what it represented…family. Her mind wandered back to that time some 4 years before…

She wanted a place where her loved ones, both distant and near, would want to come for visits and always feel at home. "You never know when Sam might show-up needing a place to hide out after an unpleasant split with a girlfriend," she'd thrown out to Michael. And then there were children. She couldn't say that she had consciously considered them when they were house shopping, but somewhere in the darkest recesses of her mind that seed had definitely been planted. Maybe it was Nate's son Charlie or one of their numerous clients along the way, perhaps a distant memory, but in retrospect, she knew the idea had firmly taken hold and germinated.

They'd toured 40 or 50 places, when on a hunch, their realtor had suggested viewing a new listing. It had only been on the market a day and was sure to sell quickly, the realtor implored. The house had only ever belonged to one family. The married couple was now older, the children already grown. The entire interior had been refurbished from top to bottom and updated with every modern convenience. Michael had immediately scoffed when they pulled into the private driveway. It was far too big and ornate, although he had to admit it had the desired benefit of privacy. They walked through the front door and she knew in an instant they were finally home.

The two-story living room had a grand fireplace and a balcony railing suspended on the second floor. Fiona could only imagine the Christmases their family was sure to enjoy, as she envisioned the tree, decorations and garlands. The kitchen had been a quick winner with Michael. There were four bedrooms, which he baulked at as a complete waste of space, especially considering the first floor study. She batted her lashes and charmed him with her wiles, suggesting the benefits of an extra study for her, guest rooms for visitors, and perhaps a room for his mom. The thought of living with his mother sent Michael running for the hills, nearly upended her plans. She'd had to work quickly, pulling out her most alluring charms, in order to finally sell the deal. In the end, the house was theirs, and she worked endlessly to make it their home.

Shaking away the memories, she looked around the great room and mourned the fact that Michael had only been around for a rare holiday, and not one of them included Christmas. After all, a spy's life is never his own. Celebrating most holidays alone, she hadn't made any of those family memories. No decorations, no dinners, no photos, not a single reminiscence, nary a one.

She trudged toward the stack of correspondence picking up the large manila envelope balanced on top. The document was to be her work for the evening. Tucking it under an arm, she peered into Michael's dark study. It was as quiet and empty as the rest of the house. She flipped the wall switch, bathing the room in soft light. Every surface, from the desk to bookcase to table and chairs, was spotless. Not a paper, pencil or speck of dust out of place. It was as squared away, unadorned and orderly as him. No fuss, no decorations, memorabilia or other extraneous clutter. She'd once tried to introduce some framed artwork and photos, but he'd rapidly scuttled her plans with the claim of distractions and unwanted interference keeping him from his work.

Well, she shrugged sadly; they'd most likely be putting the house on the market in the very near future. It was much too big for her to putter around in by herself, and she doubted Michael would want the responsibility considering he was rarely home.

"Another dream bites the dust," she muttered under her breath.

When the teakettle whistled, she returned the study to darkness and headed for the kitchen. Once the tea had steeped, she tossed the used leaves aside and carried both the mug and file to the bedroom. She folded back the silk duvet on the king-sized bed, fluffed the pillows and climbed in on her side, before reaching for the file and a pen. It was time to get started on her heartbreaking chore.

She was halfway through the document, when her mind began to wander. She couldn't understand how they'd gotten to this place. She sat in her lawyer's office for over an hour sifting through causes and circumstances, but she still couldn't assign blame. It wasn't as if they disliked or hated each other. She loved him more now than the day they had met. They rarely fought or had words. If an argument did ensue, she had to admit she was the usual instigator, and for the most part, the sole participant. He usually just stood there staring at her with those vacant, emotionless eyes, words tuned out, rarely engaged. It was as if they were two individuals sharing a space, but operating in two entirely separate universes, paths never to cross. He was present, but somehow didn't care. She was sure there was a word that best described his demeanor, but she couldn't readily bring it to mind.

She'd been volunteering at a battered women's shelter, and had often heard the counselors state that the difference between love and hate was a fine line; they both required emotion. That made sense she mused, you certainly had to feel something toward someone for either of those emotions to exist. So what do you call someone who feels…nothing? Shrugging her shoulders, she began to doodle on the back of the manila envelope, trying to pin down the right word. Emotionless…yes. Indifferent…yes. Trivial…no, that wasn't quite right. Apathy…yes, that was the word. She traced the letters one-by-one in large cursive script onto the back of the envelope…A-P-A-T-H-Y. The words described Michael's recent actions to perfection.

"Apathy," she whispered into the empty room, laying her head back against the pillows, as despair began to engulf her. She knew better than to place blame solely on his shoulders, after all, it took two to make a marriage and two to break one. And she certainly had her share of faults and baggage. Nonetheless, she could honestly say, she still loved him. She was frustrated, angry, sad, desperate, and every sentiment in between, but the love never ceased. She didn't know what else to do. Their current arrangement was untenable for the both of them, so she'd finally made a decision. Someone had to be the adult in this relationship, and apparently that responsibility had fallen to her.

She'd heard a quote once long ago: _'if you love something, set it free; if it comes back to you it's yours, if it doesn't, it never was.'_ She guessed it was time to find out, even if she wasn't going to like the answer. She glanced down at her chicken scrawl on the envelope again, before tossing it aside. Her mind filtered back some 5 years prior, trying to find a moment, a time when things began to fall apart.

Michael had proposed to her shortly after the debacle with Anson Fullerton. They had both been so distracted over the events and circumstances necessary to bring him down. She'd ended up in jail, refusing to allow Michael to compromise his principles. He'd been willing to do whatever it took to keep her safe, even if it meant breaking the law or sacrificing others. She knew she couldn't allow him to violate his core convictions without destroying the very honorable and noble spirit that made him the man she loved. They'd been able to secure a deal with both the CIA and FBI for her eventual release. They both confessed to their actions and dealings with Anson. Michael worked selflessly with both agencies to bring the bastard down. She'd been forced to endure weeks in prison, but was eventually released once the CIA verified all their facts and evidence, and Anson had been apprehended and was safely behind bars.

Upon securing her release, the CIA had negotiated and forced her to sign a contract limiting her activities within the United States. She was no longer permitted to handle guns, ammunition or explosives. If found to be in possession of any of the contraband material, or if suspected of further criminal deeds, she was to be immediately arrested and extradited to Great Britain for trial on all previous charges. In the end, the good news was she was free and living with Michael; the bad news, she could no longer participate in any of their prior adventures and schemes. She remembered telling him once, _'who I am now has so much to do with what I've done here, what I've done with you.'_ The statement was the truth at the time and remained true even to this day. In losing her purpose, she'd lost a part of herself.

Michael was dispatched on a mission within a day of her release, and remained absent for months. They'd shared the occasional phone call, mostly filled with pleasantries, but devoid of information and details. When he returned home, he invited her for dinner at the Forge and proposed marriage. As one might expect knowing her detail-oriented boyfriend, it sounded much more like a merger between interested parties, than an invitation of marriage for two people in love. But to give him credit, he had remembered her choice in engagement rings, a two-carat diamond, Asscher cut in a platinum setting. She readily accepted his proposal, as the promise of all she dreamed, a chance at a forever life with him. In retrospect, she wondered whether the impetus for the proposal was his guilt over all she'd given up for him. The ceremony was just the two of them at city hall a few days later. Looking back, she had to admit to a time, early in their Miami relationship, when she had trouble envisioning him as the marrying type. Now she was left to wonder whether her original assessment had been right all along. Trouble was, when someone offered you your heart's deepest desire tied up in a beautiful satin bow complete with a trip to the moon, you didn't stop to ask questions!

Marriage to Michael had been pretty much what she expected. He was attentive, supportive and "quiet," when he was home. And while those whispered words of love were rarely uttered, his actions left no room for doubt. They'd settled into making a life for themselves. The CIA reinstated him within months of Anson's capture. He travelled frequently and was gone for months at a time. In those quiet reflective moments of aloneness, she could admit to herself just how much she missed working along side him, but of necessity she found other avenues to express her more noble goals. She volunteered at a battered women's shelter and enjoyed helping all women, both young and old. The opportunity even offered her an outlet to use her "kick-ass" battle skills toward the education of self-defense. Nary a violent husband, father or boyfriend dared cross the line. All things considered, she found her life for the most part fulfilling, except for those occasions when memories of days spent with Michael, Sam and Jessie reared their ugly head.

The milestone of the first year of marriage was the purchase of their house. Upon his reinstatement, Michael garnered access to all of his accounts. During the five years of burned adventure, he'd accumulated a tidy sum. She busied herself with decorating and shopping, as she toiled to create a true sanctuary for the short time periods he was home.

Three years into the marriage came the pregnancy scare. More than a scare, actually, she reminisced with a wistful sigh. She'd been feeling out of sorts for weeks, but had chalked it up to Michael's absence while waging battle in a dangerous locale. When the malaise and emotional outbursts persisted, despite his safe arrival home, he was the one to make the connection. Well, maybe he needed a little push from his mother. Once they received confirmation, neither knew quite how to feel. She was outwardly reserved, but excited, since this was not a path they had consciously discussed. He tried to be quietly supportive, but didn't offer any opinions or feelings. Planned or not, there was no going back. She threw herself into the pregnancy, planning out the nursery, frequenting baby boutiques and debating names. A short eight weeks later, her dreams were crushed when she awoke with bleeding all alone in their big king-sized bed. The fantasy burst, after a short 4-1/2 months lifespan, she had just leaned it was to be a girl. She became morose and withdrawn. Michael came home to offer support and care. He was sweet and gentle and quiet, helping her to grieve and accept the loss. However in moments of silent meditation, she noticed he himself expressed little emotion or sorrow over the loss of their child. And as time ticked on, he failed to mention the baby at all.

He seemed amenable to trying again, if amenable meant no verbal opposition. Month after month their attempts turned up futile. While she became increasingly depressed and despondent, he was on detail to D.C. It was during his absence, she decided to take matters into her own hands. She scheduled a consultation with a fertility specialist, mentioning nothing to Michael at the time. The work-up served up more disappointment, placing her odds of conceiving and successfully carrying a child somewhere between remote and none. She realized she would never nurse a child with his father's blue eyes or corral a free-spirited daughter with her panache for adventure. Maddie had been her rock of support, as she cried rivers of tears on her shoulder. When Michael finally returned she shared her news. He was supportive and unquestionably accepting, finding no fault with her. He threw himself even deeper into work, and she grieved some more. The dream died once and for all. They moved on, but were never quite the same.

Six months later, she decided a change was in order to cast a spark back into their relationship. She'd been stuck stateside for the last four years thanks to her CIA restrictions and continued jeopardy with Interpol. Throughout all Michael's journeys to Europe, the Middle East and Africa, she'd been forced to remain home. Then one day she ran into his handler while out running errands. They had a friendly conversation over lunch, when he accidently let slip that Michael was finishing up a mission in Venezuela and was due home soon. Turned out he was staying at the Copa de Oro in Porto La Cruz, the same resort they'd visited under the cover of "Mr. and Mrs. Jensen."

She got the wild idea to fly to Porto La Cruz to surprise him, hoping they could spend a few days together at the resort, once his mission was complete. A kind of honeymoon they'd never been able to enjoy. She quickly made arrangements for a flight and a hotel near the airport, before flying out the following day. She had just collected her luggage, caught a taxi to the hotel and checked-in, when she decided to grab a bite to eat. She headed out of the hotel lobby and was enjoying a little window-shopping, when she bumped into Michael. Literally, or rather into his "girlfriend." They were strolling arm-in-arm down the boulevard, exchanging intimate small talk and random kisses. She remained paralyzed, rooted in place. A poor imitation of a porcelain statue, eyes wide, mouth gaping, too flabbergasted to utter a word. Michael shot her a warning glare of silence and continued on his way, with the beautiful, young blonde still attached to his arm. She ran back to the hotel, checked out and caught the first flight home.

Michael traveled home four days later with nary a call of inquiry or advanced notice. He had flown through D.C., spent 8 hours in debriefings and arrived Miami after midnight. He'd been so quiet on his entry that she'd never heard a sound, so she was shocked to be awakened by thumping and clatter the next morning. She grabbed a spare golf club from the master bedroom closet and headed down the back hall. Once she reached the great room, she could hear the noise coming from the second floor. She tiptoed up the stairs and had just turned the corner, when he walked out of the guest bathroom causing a major collision. They both pulled back intent on slugging the other, before they finally realized what was going on. Mouth gapping open and closed like a fish, Fiona finally found her voice.

"Michael, what are you doing here," she hissed out on a gust of pent up fear and anxiety.

"I live here," he responded neutrally, cinching the tie closed on his silk robe.

"But…but, when did you get home?" She questioned, taking in his attire.

"Last night, around o'dark thirty," he threw her a disarming smile. She backed up, mouth aghast again. She tossed a sidelong glance into one of the guest rooms and took note of the rumpled bed.

"Last night? Well, what are you doing up on the second floor? Why didn't you come to bed…our bed?" She questioned, anger flaring in her voice.

He reached out a hand to touch her arm, but she pulled back, wanting some answers. Momentarily dissuaded, he dropped his hand to his side, before diverting it to rub circles over his temple.

"Fiona," he began with a sigh, "…I thought it best we have a discussion about what really happened in Porto La Cruz, before I…"

"Before you what," she grunted, eyes fuming.

He dropped his head and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Look, why don't we both get dressed and talk over breakfast. We can go out if you'd like," he glanced her way and threw in a tight smile for good measure.

"There's plenty to eat downstairs," she looked down at her silk negligee and suddenly felt very overexposed. She wrapped her arms around her torso and turned to give flight.

He called after her, "I'll cook! Meet you in 30!"

She nodded back without so much as a word, rapidly retreating to the safety of the master bedroom. She wasn't sure what was going on, but she was about to get to the bottom of it. She had been crushed when she'd found Michael with that woman in Venezuela and had fled out of hurt, but once home, saner heads prevailed, and she'd surmised that the blonde bimbo was most likely an asset associated with his cover. She'd been ready to beg his forgiveness for showing up unannounced and possibly blowing the mission, but he'd never even bothered to call. Not once in the four days that followed their encounter. Now here he was sleeping in the spare bedroom, no hellos, no long anticipated welcomes, not even a kiss or a hug.

She headed into the master bathroom to shower and change. Those 30 minutes felt like a lifetime, and her anger had rapidly fizzled, giving way to anxiety and fear. She arrived in the kitchen a short time later, 30 minutes on the dot. Michael had already set the table, poured the juice and started the coffee. He was whisking eggs for omelets. She was about to ask if she could help, when she noticed the vegetables, meat and cheese already chopped and waiting on the counter.

He took note of her arrival from of the corner of his eye and motioned toward the table. "Why don't you go ahead and sit down. These will be done in a few minutes," he added while pouring the eggs into two side-by-side pans.

She wandered over to the table, dropping into her usual chair. She drummed her fingernails on the tabletop in time to the nervous thumping of her heart to stop from acting on impulse, when all she really wanted to do was to wrap herself around him and never let go.

He looked back and frowned, before offering, "Help yourself to the fruit salad, the coffee's almost done."

She opted instead for a small swallow of the juice, but instantly regretted it, when the liquid burned all the way down her esophagus. "Hooooww," she paused to clear her throat, "…was your trip?" She tried creating small talk.

"Same old, same old," he cracked black pepper onto the eggs, before adding all the fillings. "I flew into D.C yesterday for a long debriefing. Didn't catch a flight out of Washington until 10 p.m., got into Miami-Dade around one, took 20 minutes to find a cab, got home around…." He stopped mid sentence when he realized he was rambling.

"Sorry," he turned around in time to catch her staring at him with huge petrified eyes. He ducked away from her gaze and reached for the plates resting on the counter. Scooping each omelet onto a separate plate, he carried them both over to the table. He flashed her a smile as he set the plate in front of her.

"Soooo," he pulled out his chair across the table, "…how were things here?"

Her shoulders dropped in defeat and her whole demeanor deflated. She cut off a piece of the omelet and dropped it into her mouth. The eggs, though perfectly cooked, felt rubbery and leaden on her tongue. It took all her concentration to swallow the bite and fight off the dry heaves, which threatened to follow. She jumped up from the table in search of a mug and her peppermint tea. She needed something to settle her nerves, as well as her stomach.

Michael followed behind her, "I'm sorry, I forgot the coffee."

They nearly collided again. Both reached out on instinct and grabbed the other's arm. They stood there as the clocked ticked by just staring into the other's eyes. Finally, he pulled her into his chest, and she sunk willingly, holding on with all her might.

"I'm sorry I almost blew your mission…."

I'm sorry, I didn't call…"

They spoke simultaneously then chuckled with nervous laughter. He leaned forward to place a chaste kiss on her lips. She responded in kind. He disengaged the hug to offer her coffee; she declined in favor of tea. They finally settled back at the table, both picking at their breakfast, but neither consuming more than a few bites.

"About my visit," she offered tentatively, "…I ran into Jonathon Simpson last week and we decided to have lunch. He let it slip that you were about to head home from Porto La Cruz. I thought maybe I could surprise you," she shrugged helplessly. "Guess the surprise was on me. Hope I didn't ruin anything for you."

He shook his head, "No, luckily Dar…" he stumbled over the name, remembering not to offer further details. He watched her face falter and quickly hurried on, "Uh, no everything was fine. I wish you could've found a way to reach me. I would've loved to have you join me, once things were wrapped up, but I don't think the Copa de Oro was our best option. Cover and all," he shrugged.

"Michael!" her voice instantly raised an octave, "…how am I supposed to call you, when I'm not allowed to have your…."

"I know," he quickly lifted his hand in surrender, trying to defuse her ire.

She pushed her plate back from the table, "Well, at least I didn't blow the mission or place you in danger." Her eyes remained glued to the tabletop, her countenance one of pure defeat.

"Fiiii," she looked up at the beloved utterance of her name. "Fi, I…I…I don't want you to get the wrong idea," he stuttered over the words.

"And what idea is that?" She fought the emotion in her voice.

"That she means anything to me," he offered back. She turned her head away to hide the tears. "She's just an asset," he reached for her hand in comfort.

"Well, so was I…once."

"No Fi, you were always more than an asset, even in the beginning." He ran his fingertips over the top of her hand.

She looked back at him, almost afraid to ask, "You were kissing her, have you ever…well, you know…for a mission?"

"No!"

"But with me…."

"Never Fi! Never since you…back in Ireland." He tugged on her arm, pulling her toward him.

Breakfast was quickly forgotten, as they celebrated his home coming in a more intimate way. She was happy to have him home, but couldn't quite help noticing how much more tentative they were in their handling and touches of one another.

"Michael?" She looked up from her perch on his chest.

"Yeah Fi?" He stroked a finger through her hair, pushing it behind her ear.

Folding her hands on his chest, she rested her chin atop and looked him in the eye. "Why did you sleep in the guest room last night, instead of in our bed here with me?"

He gazed at her uncomfortably, "I wasn't sure how you'd react after our incident the other day. I thought I needed to explain first." He lifted a brow in question.

"Okay," she whispered back softly dropping her head back onto his chest. She was lulled to sleep by his steady stroking of her hair. It had been a rough few days, and sleep had been scare in coming.

He was able to remain in Miami for 3 weeks, before being called back to Washington on a new assignment. During that time they'd been cautious and uncomfortable in each other's presence. She noticed he'd taken to staying up late working in his study and often retired to the guest room under the guise of not wanting to bother her once she was asleep. Her unease about their relationship firmly took hold and steadily grew by the day.

The mission took him away for eight months this time. Their only communication was cryptic phone calls placed by him about once a month. She found her thoughts drifting to places, which she preferred not to visit, so she threw herself into her work at the shelter, along with helping family and friends. Sam's lady friend, Elsa had developed breast cancer about a year after her and Michael's marriage. The staging had been low, the nodule well circumscribed, and she'd only required surgery, but that was enough to scare Sam about the potential of losing his favorite lady. He had proposed marriage to Elsa, while they were away on a private vacation. When they returned man-and-wife, everyone was shocked, not the least of which was Michael. Elsa had to slow down and take a break in her business dealings; without a second thought Sam had picked up the slack. Everything was going well until about a year prior, when the cancer had come back. Elsa was diagnosed with Stage IV breast cancer early last December, and despite enduring surgery, chemotherapy and radiation, the cancer had been particularly aggressive, progressing undeterred. It eventually became obvious to everyone that this was not a fight Elsa could win. Sam had thrown himself into her care, overlapping duties between home and work, taking over where hospice left off. He wanted Elsa to remain in the comfort of their home. There was no way he would allow her to die in a sterile hospital environment. Fiona for her part, tried to come by and offer assistance several times a week as a small reprieve for Sam.

It was in August she received a panicked call from Jonathon Simpson, Michael's handler. There had been a problem with the mission. Michael's cover had almost been blown. As it was, words had flown, bullets followed, Michael was in surgery and headed for intensive care. Her emotions threatened to overwhelm her. Bile erupted from her stomach and burned the back of her throat. She stood transfixed, tears blinding her view of the phone.

"Where is he?" She managed to croak out through the tears.

"I can't tell you," the handler threw out the usual party line.

"He's my husband!" She steeled herself and felt her anger soar, "Tell me where he is, or so help me…I will blow you up into so many pieces they won't have enough remains to identify the body!"

"Now Fiona…" the handler tried to intercede.

She drew in a deep breath and let it out through her nose. "Jonathon, I have done everything the CIA requested, but if I lose Michael…I swear…"

"Okay, okay," he conceded, "…he's in New York…New York Presbyterian-Cornell Hospital."

"New York!" She screeched. "What the hell is he doing in New York?"

"Part of his cover…."

"For how long?" She was stunned, "How long has he been in the U.S.?"

"I can't…."

"Jonathon," she groused, anger on edge, "…I want to know what's going on!"

The handler sighed in sympathy, "Mrs. Westen, you know I can't go into details."

She knew she was being put off, as soon as her formal name came out, and she'd had enough of the Agency, the red tape and the interference in their lives. "You know what, Jonathon…I don't care anymore about your rules and regulations. All I know is my husband has been seriously injured; he's in a damned operating room and in critical condition. I don't know whether he's going to live or die, but either way, I intend to be by his side!"

"Fiona, wait…."

She hung up the phone, immediately called the airlines and began packing. She was at the airport within the hour and caught the first standby flight available to LaGuardia. Luggage in tow, she rushed through the doors of Presbyterian and fervently looked for an information desk. On her way toward information, she was intercepted by Jonathon Simpson.

"Fiona, you can't be here!" He dragged her by an arm back toward the front lobby.

"The hell I can't," she pulled her arm away, shooting him a ferocious glare.

"Look, you'll blow everything," the handler raked agitated fingers through his hair.

"What?" Her bag fell from her shoulder, hitting the floor with a loud thud. "Are you telling me that my husband is in critical condition in the ICU and the mission is still on?"

Jonathon nervously paced away a few feet, before returning to her side. "We're so close," he exclaimed with pleading eyes, "…we can't lose this asset, or all Michael's work will be in vain…"

She cut him off, "All his work? All his work?" Her voice continued to rise in intensity. "My husband is in an ICU and could die, and all you're worried about is a mission?"

"Look," he grabbed her arm again, dragging her out the front door of the hospital. "Michael brought this on himself," he hurriedly continued on when her eyes flared. "His head hasn't been in the game these last few months."

"He's practically given you his life. What more do you want?" She threw up her arms in exasperation.

"This mission can't be compromised. It's too important to national security," he bellowed out the words to be heard over the din of nearby traffic. "At this point, Michael is secondary…the country comes first."

If she'd had a gun, she would've killed him on sight, CIA be damned! As it was, she shot daggers from her eyes. Shaking a finger in his face, "You see here…."

"No!" The handler caught view of an agent out of the corner of his eye and waved him forward. "Agent Jones, would you please see Mrs. Westen back to the airport. I believe she has a flight to catch."

Fiona wilted in upon herself, realizing this line of discussion was gaining her nothing. "Never mind," she acquiesced, "…I can catch a cab myself, thank you very much."

She turned and walked toward the curb of the circular drive and hailed a taxi. Better they thought her defeated she reasoned, telling the taxi driver to take her to the closest hotel.

Later that night, she slipped through a back door of the Milstein Building and made her way toward the elevator. Pushing the button for the fourth floor, she adjusted the phlebotomy ID tag on her white lab coat. Glancing around the corner of the elevator, she peered into the ICU waiting room and advanced when she saw the coast was clear. At 1 a.m., there were only a few visitors remaining and she easily blended in, following one of the housekeeping staff through the ICU doors. When he looked back at her puzzled, she flashed her ID and walked quickly down the hall toward a patient room. She had advanced approximately halfway, when she noticed a nurse exiting a room. As the door started to close, she saw the dark hair, bruised face and breathing tube, but still recognized him all the same. Her heart skipped a beat, as she proceeded down the hall and ducked into a visitor's restroom a short distance away. She knew she had to get a grip, before she blew her chance. Tossing cold water over her face, she felt her heart rate begin to slow. It had been eight months since she'd looked on his face. She felt the tears welling in her eyes, but blinked them back. There was no time for emotion and tears; this might well be her only chance to talk to him…to let him know she was here. Raking the stray pieces of hair away from her face, she smoothed them back toward her pinned up bun, then took a deep cleansing breath and prepared to exit the washroom. Finding the hallway clear, she quickly made her way to Michael's room, pushed the door open and stepped inside.

She looked around the room, assuring no visitors or keepers. Walking to the head of the bed, she studied her husband. His face was swollen and bruised, but that still couldn't hide his handsome rugged features from her. He was lying still, apparently asleep, although she had no idea his level of consciousness. She decided not to wake him, for fear of a nurse coming to check. His breathing was steady, in tune with the ventilator swishing at his side. Glancing at the cardiac monitor, his heart rate and blood pressure appeared to be fine. Her eyes continued on a downward path, his right forearm was casted and a large bandage encircled the right shoulder. She wanted to lift the sheet away to assess for further damage, but thought better of it, not wanting to cause an alarm.

She removed the white lab coat, and stashed it and the phlebotomy supplies under the bed for easy access. Dropping into a chair near his head, she withdrew two pictures from a pocket and reached for his left hand. She carefully tunneled her fingers below his palm then began stroking the dorsum of his hand with her thumb. Immediately she began to relax upon feeling his touch. She instinctively knew he was going to survive. She glanced back to the cardiac monitor and noted his heart rate had likewise dropped. Smiling to herself, she thought he sensed her closeness, even if he wasn't consciously aware.

Ten minutes later a sound in the hall placed her on high alert. She sat up straight and studied his hospital band. Victor Portnov was typed on the patient ID. She momentarily panicked realizing she didn't know anything about his cover. The name sounded vaguely Russian, but the spelling of Victor was definitely Western European or American. The scene in Porto La Cruz flashed though her mind and she remembered him speaking with his native accent. The blonde bimbo, on the other hand, had the distinctive thick intonation of a Russian dialect. She looked down at the two photos in her hand. One was a full facial shot of Michael, the other a snapshot of the two of them holding a 2-y.o Charlie. It had been taken a few years ago, but it was still one of her favorite photos. She had figured the pictures might serve as an ID of sorts, should she be questioned about their relationship.

At that moment, the door opened and a nurse stepped in with a bag of I.V. fluids and tubing. The nurse was startled to find Fiona at the bedside and immediately inquired as to her identity.

Fiona smiled disarmingly, before glancing back to Michael. "I'm his wife. I was only just contacted this afternoon about the accident. I caught the first available plane to New York."

The nurse regarded her with sympathy, "I'm sorry to hear you weren't contacted sooner, but I'm a little confused. What did you say your name was?"

"Oh I'm so sorry," Fi started to stand, but the nurse waved her back to the chair. "I'm Rachel Portnov, and of course, this is my husband, Victor. I'd be more than happy to show you some ID, but I was in such a hurry that I left my purse in the taxi from the airport. I've already called and they're holding it for me, but in the meantime…."

The nurse frowned with embarrassment, "I'm sorry, but without proper identification, I'm afraid I can't let you stay here. The patient demographic sheet doesn't list you as a next of kin."

Fi quickly handed the nurse the photographs, "Perhaps this might help. I know I don't have my license with me at the moment, but here is a recent picture of my husband, and another of the two of us with our son."

The nurse studied the photos and smiled at the one of the attractive family. "What a cute little boy," she beamed.

"Yes, he is a handsome little fellow, but I'm a bit biased," Fiona preened. "He rather looks like his father; I'm afraid he got very little of his beautiful looks from me."

The nurse handed back the pictures and studied Fiona for a moment, "Those are lovely, but I'm afraid…."

Fiona stood up quickly, as tears welled in her eyes. "Oh please don't make me leave. I've been so worried. Victor's been up here in New York on business for the last 6 weeks. He was supposed to be coming home this weekend, but with the accident and all, that won't be possible. It's just that Charlie and I have missed him so."

Reaching for a tissue from the box on the bedside stand, the nurse passed the Kleenex to the distraught woman before her. "Well, it's out of the ordinary, but I guess I can let it pass just this once."

"Thank you," Fiona gushed, and stepped back so the nurse had access to Michael. "Would you like me to step out, while you attend to my husband?"

"Oh no," the nurse smiled, while reaching for the nearly empty I.V. bag, "…I'll just be a few minutes. I need to hang these new fluids, check on his dressings and draw some blood. Unless," the nurse looked up at Fiona, "…does blood make you squeamish?"

"Oh no, not at all," Fi quickly answered back. She watched the nurse carry out her duties, but found herself gasping at the sight of the large bandage across his abdomen.

"Oh, I'm sorry I didn't warn you, I just assumed…."

Fiona felt the color drain from her face, as she tried desperately to assure the nurse she was fine. "No…I just didn't realize…I mean."

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to step out to the waiting room while I…."

"No!" Fiona shouted, before lowering her voice. "No, I just didn't realize the extent of his injuries. I mean when they called about the accident, they never told me…they didn't mention…." Fiona took note of the nurse's inquisitive stare and quickly amended, "I was in such a hurry to be by his side, that I hadn't thought to ask the extent of his injury. I heard surgery and ICU, and well…I just headed for the airport.

The nurse smiled disarmingly, "I understand…I'm sure all of this is quite a shock."

"Can you tell me?" Fiona pointed toward Michael's injured body.

"I'm not sure it's my place," the nurse hedged, "…perhaps you could wait until morning then speak with his physician."

"Pleeeease," Fiona begged.

The nurse nodded and began describing the injuries, including the broken right forearm and the blown out shoulder, which had actually been the result of a bullet. Fiona's mind started to wander off, when the nurse's voice brought her back to the present. "He's really lucky to be alive, the man who mugged them, came way too close with this shot." The nurse pointed to the abdominal dressing. "An inch or two higher, and he might have gotten the heart."

Fiona winced, "But he didn't?"

"No," the nurse shook her head, "…the bullet entered the stomach and exited his flank. Lucky again, it didn't hit his spine or kidney."

"So, he should recover fully," Fiona asked, as her hand stroked Michael's abdomen with the softest of touch. "Why is the dressing so big?"

The nurse finished removing the dressing to reveal a long angry incision with a drain off to the side. "The surgeon needed to do an exploratory laparotomy in order to evaluate all the abdominal contents. The incision may look scary, but remember the injury to the abdomen was restricted to the stomach. A few days, maybe a week to heal and we should be able to remove the tube sucking fluid from his stomach, then hopefully he'll start a liquid diet."

Fiona nodded her understanding, thrilled to hear the abdominal injuries hadn't been worse. "What about his shoulder," she asked, unable to divert her attention from the bruised and swollen abdomen.

Now that's probably going to take some rehab," the nurse replied, as she began redressing the wound on Michael's stomach. "Hopefully, once he's able to eat again, you'll be able to take him home for that phase of his care."

"Oh, I hope so," Fiona stepped closer to the bed and stroked Michael's cheek. "He's so quiet, is he just sleeping or…."

"Anesthesia is still wearing off, plus he's receiving pain meds." The nurse reached across to pat Fiona's arm, "Now don't you worry, your husband here is going to be fine. In fact," the nurse attached a syringe to one of the I.V. lines and began to draw back blood, "…if these lab values are improved, we might be pulling his breathing tube by the morning." The nurse capped the syringe and pulled on the pigtail to flush the blood from the arterial line. As she walked toward the door, the woman turned back to Fiona, "Is there anything I can get for you?"

"No," Fiona shook her head, "…but thank you for your kindness."

"Your welcome, Mrs. Portnov."

Fi leaned forward to kiss Michael's warm forehead, while stroking her fingers through his hair. She wanted to climb up in bed with him and snuggle into his warmth. But alas, the bed was too small and the ICU wasn't quite the place for snuggling. She settled instead for the nearby chair pulled as close as possible, and their hands interlinked.

She was subsequently pulled from sleep a few hours later, by the sound of a mosquito buzzing, or was it an alarm? Something tugged on her right arm, heightening her senses. Opening an eye, she glanced around the hospital room, recognizing instantly her location. Images of the previous night flitted through her memory, the kind nurse, his injuries, the bandage, and there was a vague recollection of someone removing his breathing tube. Then she heard the buzzing sound again. She looked up to find Michael pushing the call button.

Michael! She startled and was instantly wide-awake. She stood up beside the bed and gazed down into this crystal, blue eyes.

"Michael, you're awake."

"What are you doing here," his words came out low and raspy.

"I was worried," she reached out to stroke to his face.

He looked around the room and then stared back confused, "Where am I?"

"Hospital in New York, apparently there was some kind of incident with your cover?"

His eyes went wide, "You can't be here!"

"Michael, I…."

"I'm serious, Fiona," he grabbed her hand with amazing strength and tried to push her away. There were voices on the other side of the door just beyond in the hallway. "You need to go!"

"But Mich…."

Her words were cut off by the blonde bimbo with the Russian accent, "Victor, I'm so glad to see…" she paused mid sentence and turned to Fiona, "…who is she?"

Fiona's eyes went wide, "I…"

"No one," Michael quickly retorted, "… she wandered into my room and I was just calling the nurse to kick her out!"

Fi turned on Michael, "How dare…."

The nurse and an aide appeared in the doorway inquiring about all the noise. "What's going on in here?"

"This woman wandered into my boyfriend's room. Don't you people have better security?" The airheaded blonde bellowed at the nurse.

"But," the nurse looked from Fiona to Michael, "…I thought…"

Fiona cut her off, "I guess I was mistaken on the room number, if you'll excuse…."

"Just a minute," the nurse demanded, "…you told me last night that he was your husband. You even showed me that picture of the two of you with your kid!"

Michael's eyes went wide, as the blonde rounded the bed to get between Michael and Fi. "What's this about a wife, Victor?"

"It's nothing, Daria," Michael froze trying to compose a viable explanation on the fly.

The blonde screamed back, "I swear, if you lied to me…my uncle is…"

"No doll," Michael flashed her a smarmy smirk, "…I wasn't lying. I'm not married. That woman," he pointed to Fi, "…she's one of my ex-girlfriends. She keeps stalking me, despite how many times I've told her to take a hike."

"Well, what about the kid?" Blondey groused, fixing Fi with a disgusted glare.

"Not mine," he threw back. "She keeps nosing around trying to get child support out of me. I told her to get lost," he glared angrily at Fiona, "Get out of here you whore, and take your bastard kid with you!"

Fi backed her way to door and then turned to flee. She ran smack into Jonathon Simpson's chest outside in the hall. He was wearing a long white jacket with a physician's nametag. The handler motioned to "Mr. Jones" to come forward, as Michael bellowed, "Where's Oleg? I need Oleg to get that bitch outta here! I never want to see her near me again."

Jones/Oleg grabbed Fi roughly around the upper arm and began pushing her toward the exit. Fi could still overhear the yelling from Michael's room. "Doc," Michael bellowed, "…How'd that bitch get in here? I thought you had security around this place!"

Jonathon's answer was just barely audible, "It's taken care of now, Mr. Portnov. I just saw your associate Mr. Gorelov escorting her out of the ICU. Is that the Oleg to whom you're referring."

Michael's voice echoed back loud and clear, as Fiona exited the ICU doors. "Yah, that's Oleg! Tell him to get rid of her PERMANENTLY this time!"

'_***'**_

Fiona stretched full length in the bed to disrupt the cobwebs from her mind. She reached for her peppermint tea, but put it back on the bedside table after the first cold swallow. She glanced at the clock, only to realize she'd been tripping down memory lane for over two hours. She shifted back up in the bed and reached for the discarded file. A few pages in, her mind began to wander again….

Michael had called her cell the following day. He was more than merely angry. He was livid and out for someone's blood. The mission had almost been scuttled, but they'd been able to pull it out-of-the-fire when he'd been declared dead. The "doctor" came up with a complication brought on by "Victor's" extreme agitation over the sight of his ex-girlfriend/Fiona. The operatives had told the blonde bimbo that Victor had bled out from his abdominal injuries the following night. Mr. Jones/"Oleg" had been able to convince Daria to deal directly with him in her time of distress. Michael barely allowed Fi to get a word in edgewise, except for a short, howbeit rebuffed, apology. He informed her he would be discharged to rehab the following Monday. She offered to fly to New York to help bring him back to Miami, but he had declined. Rehab had been arranged in D.C, so Michael could be extensively debriefed, as well as, giving him the opportunity to bring his new replacement up to speed. He was fuming over the loss of his assignment, and made no bones about telling her so. His handler, Jonathon Simpson, had also been placed on administrative leave and was pending termination for leaking information to Fiona. When she asked about coming to Washington, he again cut her off. The agency didn't want her anywhere near D.C., or him for that matter, for the next few weeks. He ended by telling her the CIA had threatened to…. This time she cut him off mid sentence, finishing the statement with her own terse reply, "Terminate you, Michael? I know you wouldn't want to risk your job just to see me! We couldn't let that happen, now could we?" She hung up the phone and threw it across the room with such ferocity, it crumbled into a million pieces leaving a big dent in the opposite bedroom wall.

Six weeks later, Fiona was making dinner, when she heard a key engage in the front door lock. She grabbed the chef knife from the cutting board and peered around the corner into the great room. The door swung wide, as Jessie appeared helping Michael across the threshold. She dropped the knife back on the counter and ran for the door. She hadn't heard back from him after their last argument, when he'd called six weeks prior from New York.

She approached him cautiously and reached out to offer a hand. He pulled back, straight-armed his palm to her and shook his head "no." She took a few steps backward, allowing Jessie to escort Michael to the living room couch. Jessie looked from one friend to the other, before shrugging his shoulders in bewilderment. He reversed his steps and ran back to the front porch. Returning again, Jessie put Michael's duffle and briefcase on the floor by the credenza.

"So," Jessie rubbed his hands together, "…what's new around here?" He looked decidedly uncomfortable.

"Not much," Fiona tried to feign ignorance, "…how about things at your place? How's Travis these days?"

Jessie continued to play along, discussing his favorite subject, "He's great, but a serious handful! Lana can barely keep up with him…you know, terrible two's and all."

Fi nodded in understanding, "And how's Lana doing with the pregnancy?"

"Okay," Jessie glanced around the room, covertly stealing a glimpse at Mike, "…you know how pregnancies are…just 6 weeks to term and she's ready for it to be over."

Fiona dropped her eyes to study the floor in a vain attempt to hide the sadness, which was welling up again. Jessie had meant no harm by his pregnancy comment, but it stung all the same. He caught his slip of the tongue a moment later and tried to backtrack.

"Look Fi, I'm really sorry…."

She waved a hand to cut off the apology, "It's okay. Say, I'm just making some dinner, would you like to stick around and have a bite to eat?"

"Nah," Jessie started backing up toward the front door, "…Lana's going to kill me if I don't get home and relieve her of some Travis time. Catch ya two later," he waved and turned to exit the door, before pivoting back. "Hey, maybe we can get together sometime for a barbeque." He looked Mike's direction and shrugged his shoulders, "Well, whenever Mike's up for it." With that he closed the door behind him, more than happy to escape the tense atmosphere of the Westen household.

Fi chewed on her lower lip, while she watched Michael's every move. He looked all around the room, taking in every detail of the great room and front hall, studying the décor and furnishings, as if he'd never seen the room before. Finally he cast his gaze forward catching the glint from her apprehensive eyes.

"Hey," he softly uttered.

"Hi," she whispered back, before clearing her throat to continue on. "Um, how are you doing?" She picked at a fingernail, "Can I get you anything?"

"No," he shook his head, "…I'm good right now."

She nodded before turning toward the kitchen. Looking back over her shoulder, she offered, "Ill just keep working on dinner.

The meal had been awkward, with very little conversation and even less consumption of food. She managed to get out of him that physically he was doing fairly well, although he'd not yet regained full range of motion in his right shoulder. The agency wasn't going to allow him back in until he was physically 100%, at least not for missions, paperwork maybe, but not in the field. His eyes looked dead as he reiterated the agency line and a small spark of sympathy ignited and smoldered in her chest. She knew how important the CIA was to Michael…even more important than her.

By the time she'd cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher, Michael could no longer keep his eyelids from drooping. She had offered to help him get settled. He suggested the guest room, but she insisted on the master bed. She doubted he was steady enough to make his way up and down the stairs. She found him a pair of clean sleep pants, fluffed his pillows and finally helped him into bed.

Just as she was about to exit the bedroom in search of his laundry, she turned back, "Michael, would you prefer I sleep upstairs on the daybed in my study?"

He paused to considered her a moment, before folding back the covers on her side of the bed. Patting the mattress, he smiled, "I don't think that's necessary, unless it's what you prefer."

His smile sent her heart aflutter; she hadn't seen a real one in such a long time. He noticed the shake of her head and his face immediately fell, "Did you change your mind?"

"No," she smiled back, "…I'm just going to start a load of your laundry then I'll be right back."

The first night, she laid awake just staring at his beautiful face. She couldn't believe he was finally home. She wasn't sure what his presence in their bedroom indicated, but she was happy just the same. The second night, she slept fitfully, after knocking his shoulder, while trying to cuddle close. He screamed out in pain, but eventually fell back to sleep with the addition of some ice and pain meds. She kept nodding off and waking up throughout the entire night, afraid she might disturb him again. She tried to stay on her own side of the bed, just to be safe, but every time she fell asleep, her body sought out the warmth of his, as if on instinct. Each time she touched his skin; she immediately woke, as though shocked by a high voltage electrical current. No matter how hard she struggled she couldn't stay away; she was like the moth to his flame. By the third night, he noticed her exhaustion and insisted on sleeping in the guest room. She had cried herself to sleep over yet another lost chance.

The separate sleeping quarters persisted for the next two weeks. Slowly but surely, Michael moved more and more of his belongings to the upstairs closet of the guest bedroom. That was when everything finally came to a head.

They had just finished breakfast and Michael had offered to clean up the kitchen, while Fiona showered and dressed for her day at the women's shelter. With the kitchen back to its pristine shape, Michael wandered back to the master bedroom in search of a favorite shirt. He peeked his head into the room, but didn't see Fi anywhere, so he continued through the bedroom and bathroom toward the master closet. Once he'd taken a few steps beyond the bathroom door, he was stopped in his tracks. Fi had just existed the shower and was toweling off, her back to him. He stood there staring, rooted in place.

Fiona finished drying her torso and was hanging up the towel, when she heard a gasp behind her. She turned to find Michael staring at her. "Michael…"

He quickly turned around and began apologizing, "I'm so sorry Fiona. I wanted a shirt from the closet. I didn't mean to walk in. I'll just be on my way." His voice rambled a mile a minute, as it increased in pitch with each spoken word.

As he began to flee, she called out to him, "Michael, it's okay, go ahead and…."

"No, no, no…I'll come back later." He stood in the bathroom doorway face diverted into the bedroom.

She scrunched her nose in question, "Michael, STOP…what's wrong with you? Come back and get your shirt."

He couldn't move. He was trapped in the doorway. "I…."

His problem suddenly dawned on her, "Michael, TURN AROUND!"

"No, I….

She ran around in front of him, her nakedness in full view. "Is this what's bothering you?" She waved a hand up and down her body. His nervous eyes instantly dropped to the floor.

"Michael, it's not like you haven't seen me "EXACTLY LIKE THIS" a million times before." He held his breath and didn't move; eyes fixed to a spot on the floor.

She swallowed hard against the crushing pain in her chest, "So, it does bother you, but why?" No response from him.

A gasp of understanding escaped her lips, "Do I now disgust you so completely…you can't even look at me?" She clawed at the nearby comforter, pulling it off of the bed.

"Fi, NO!" He finally found his voice and propelled himself toward her.

She was so emotionally fraught his words didn't register. She wrapped herself in the comforter, hiding every slip of skin from head to toe. When she sensed his closeness, she stepped back, eyes wild with fury and pain.

"Get out!" She screamed and took two steps further away.

He reached for her, but she smacked his hand away. "Get out, I said! Get out!" She shrieked, tears flooding down her cheeks.

When he tried once more to reach her, she pushed him away and ran for the bathroom. Just as he turned to give chase, he heard the door lock click into place. When Fiona emerged 20 minutes later, dressed and ready for work, Michael was no where to be found on the first floor. Thankful for his absence, she grabbed her purse and ran for her car. The day at the shelter progressed slowly. She swore she could hear each tick of the clock. All she wanted to do was go home and lock herself away in her bedroom. She knew their marriage was in trouble, but hadn't realized just how much. She thought they had more time. She just needed to make him understand about New York, but apparently placing his job in jeopardy had been his last straw. Based on his reaction that morning, Michael already had one foot out the door.

Mercifully, the day had finally ended. One of the counselors at the shelter knew Fiona seemed somehow "off". She tried repeatedly to engage her in discussion, but Fi was having none of it. She wasn't one of those women at the shelter. She had a life and friends. She wasn't being physically abused. She didn't need any help. Her bravado quickly died, when a small voice in the back of her head whispered softly, maybe so, but you're just as emotionally lost. It was in that moment of weakness she asked to leave the shelter early.

Arriving home, the house seemed especially quiet. She had steeled herself on the drive home for another go around with Michael, but it appeared he wasn't home. Initially, she sighed in relief, but then worry set in. She wandered into the kitchen, through the great room and up the stairs. She found the door to the guest room open, the bed freshly made, all clutter swept from sight. She timidly tiptoed into the room, as if at any moment he might jump out of hiding. When she made it to the dresser, she slowly opened a drawer, only to find it bare. She opened the next and the next, all with the same result. Throwing open the closet doors, there were only empty hangers staring out from the space, taunting her with their meaning. She hurried to his bathroom and found it equally clean and bare.

The emotional panic from that morning came roaring back in full force, threatening to engulf her. She ran down the stairs to his study. All his files were gone! Racing to the master bedroom, she held out one last hope that he had decided to come back to their place of refuge. The bed was made; no trace of him was in the room. Sprinting to the closet, she found an empty bar where his clothes had once hung. Tears now trailed from her eyes, as she inspected the bathroom. She found a bottle of his cologne on the vanity. The one that was her favorite, but no other trace of him, save for a single white envelope taped to the mirror. Her name was written across the front in his perfect block script. She reached up with trembling hands and tore the note from the tape.

Carrying the envelope to the kitchen, she placed it on the table and busied herself with making a cup of tea. She paced back and forth from the stove to the table waiting for the kettle to boil. And with each lap she stared at the envelope expecting it to burst into flames.

Finally with tea in hand, she sat down at the table and reached for the note. Pulling out the stationery, she looked down to find a scant few lines. He never was one for wasting time with unnecessary words.

The letter said simply:

_F_

_I've been transferred to London, deskwork for now._

_I'm sorry if I hurt you._

_I don't know how to stop._

_M_

She read it again and again looking for any hidden meaning. There were no words of endearment, no plans for the rest of their life. He hadn't even written their full names. Apparently she was now "F" and he was "M." Considering their past experience, she guessed she should count her blessings he even left a note. There was a time not so long ago, when he fled in the middle of the night without so much as a backward glance.

It was then the first line jumped out sending a jolt to her heart. He was in London. LONDON! The word was like a slap to the face. She was prevented from travel to England without the risk of imprisonment. She knew he'd been out of the country hundreds of times, but this was somehow different…a transfer! The finality of it all made her quiver, dropping the mug from her hand. It crashed to floor shattering into a hundred pieces, rather like her heart. She retreated toward the bedroom, leaving the mess of her life behind.

Two weeks later, after many sleepless nights spent bartering with God and a never-ending supply of tears, she finally made a decision. She contacted the attorney the very next day. He'd been able to expedite their meeting. That had been a short two weeks ago.

'_***'**_

Shaking off the past, she glanced at the papers still tightly gripped in her hand. She was too tired to care anymore. There were no more tears to shed; no more bargains to be made. It was time to set him free just like the quote suggested. She quickly thumbed the last few pages of the document, shrugged her shoulders and turned straight to the back page. Reaching for the pen beside her, she signed her name on the designated line along with the date. She never thought it would end this way.

Scooping up all the papers, she thrust them into the Express Mail envelope. Pulling the paper away to reveal the sticky tape, she paused a moment and whispered a plea, then sealed the flap shut. Casting the package onto the floor, she reached into the middle drawer of her nightstand, pulling out a small wooden box. Lifting the lid, she withdrew the bottle of his cologne. Staring at the remaining few drops of scented liquid, a few teardrops escaped her eyes. She sprayed his pillow with a fine mist of the cologne and inhaled the scent that was him. Placing the bottle back into the box, she closed it away for safekeeping. Only a few more spritzes she mused and then it was time to move on, much like him…two feet out the door. The tears caused her lashes to stick, obscuring her vision. She turned out the light and hugged his pillow close to her body.

"Just a few more days, just a few more days," she repeated in an unending chant hoping to find just this once the peacefulness of a dreamless sleep amidst a sea of turmoil.

'_*****'**_

_To be continued…_

'_************'**_

* * *

_**AN: **__Just remember there are always two sides to every story, or perhaps three: hers, his and the truth. Next up, Michael's thoughts on the events of the first five years of their marriage._


	3. Chapter 2

_**AN:**__ I want to thank everyone who took the time to read the first chapter of my story. I appreciate folks giving me a chance and trusting me with their favorite characters. I also want to thank those of you who left such wonderful and informative reviews. It is so nice to have readers who comment on the things they like or don't like about my stories. Those reviews give me insight into whether my writing successfully portrays the real intent of my ideas. So thanks for all the lengthy & well-thought-out reviews…please, Please, PLEASE, keep it up. If something doesn't make sense or seems out of place for the characters, please let me know! Also, for those who pointed out my misspelling of Westen, thank you! I guess I've attended one too many medical conferences at a Westin hotel or resort, LOL! I knew I had made that mistake once or twice, but thought I'd corrected them all. Thanks for keeping me on my toes!_

_Now for a note or two about this next chapter. This chapter is from Michael's POV. Apparently, I did a very good job of portraying Fiona's current state of misery. Some of you aren't too thrilled with Michael right now, LOL! Hopefully, I can redeem his character and restore a little of your faith in him with chapter 2. As I noted in a previous author's note, there are always 3 sides to a story: hers, his and the truth. I think this chapter might bring a few of you back into the fold. That said, this chapter will not answer all your questions, you'll have to come back for that! (Evil Grin)_

'_************'**_

* * *

**Part 2**

_By far the most dangerous foe we have to fight is apathy – indifference from whatever cause, not from lack of knowledge, but from carelessness, from absorption in other pursuits, from a contempt bred of self-satisfaction. – William Osler_

_Most human beings have an almost infinite capacity for taking things for granted. – Aldous Huxley_

'_*****'**_

* * *

…_Releasing a gasp barely louder than a whisper, she turned to flee…_

_Padraiq momentarily froze in his kneeling position, shocked by Sarnait's brisk escape. Collecting himself, he reached to collect the white rose she had abandoned in her urgent retreat._

"_Wait," the knight called out, running with the swiftness of a fine steed._

_Sarnait took a moment to glance behind her and found Padraiq in quick pursuit. He was gaining ground rapidly, unencumbered by such heavy garment as she. She hoisted her skirt closer to her knees and cut a path through the wildflowers. Breathing feverishly, she pressed on making every effort to escape the magical powers of the Elfin Knight._

"_Please, Sarnait, I beg thee allow me to swear to you the truth," he followed her through rows of flowers, his garment taking on petals, leaves and burrs, as he flew through the field. Broken stems whipped at his legs, creating angry welts in their path. Finally, as he drew close, he reached out a hand to grasp her. He took hold of her arm sending both of them tumbling though the sea of flowers. Careening to a halt, he searched frantically for the maiden. He found her curled in upon herself as a baby crying uncontrollable._

"_Ssssh, my lovely maiden," he tried to soothe, brushing the flowers and clover from her hair._

"_Bring no harm to me, I pray thee," she pushed back, tunneling deeper into a patch of Sea aster. "If you would but let me take my leave, I swear upon my heart and the grave of my mother, I will never tell a soul."_

_He gazed at the beautiful young woman before him. Dress covered in leaves, hair fallen about her shoulder in disorderly waves of curls, her cheeks rosy and shiny with tears. He swore in all his life he had never seen such a lovely sight._

"_I promise not to harm thee, fair lass. Not a hair on your head or a ribbon from your dress." He reached out to her, offering his hand. She pulled away in a vain attempt to gain ground between them. He graced her with a kind smile and nodded, holding his perch among the clover._

_Wrapping her arms around her torso, she shivered in the cooling air. Eyeing him with a gaze of pure dread, she spoke is a hushed whisper, "What is it thou wantest with me, sir?"_

_He removed the jeweled-broach from his coat, dropping it into a leather satchel bound to his waist. Withdrawing the green velvet cloak from about his shoulders, he offered it to the maiden adding an extra layering to her warmth._

_She accepted the cloak, wrapping it tightly around her lithe form. Glancing back with a blush to her cheeks, she offered the faintest hint of a smile and whispered, "Thanks be to thee, sir, for your offer of kindness."_

_He bent low at the waist and nodded. Looking back with tentative eye, he implored, "I wonder if I might request but a moment of your time for the telling of a tale from mine heart?"_

_Sarnait nodded in affirmation, feeling her fears begin to assuage, "If you wish, sir."_

_He nodded back then settled in for the telling of the story. "There was a young lad a long time yore. He had a mortal soul, a mere child born and drawing breath just as you. One autumn day much as this," he waved his hand about their idyllic setting, "…his grandfather took him on his first hunt. They travelled across fields and streams seeking a wild boar to present as the lad's first trophy for the celebration of the Samhain of All Saints' Day. The lad grew tired and hungry, so they paused to rest in their pursuits. After partaking of a lunch of loaves and cheese, the pair became heavy with sleep. When the young lad awoke he was deep in the forest and his grandfather was nowhere to be found. The Great Fairy Queen, Morrigan, had placed a spell upon the child. Morrigan, the Great Queen and Deity of War, commanded on that very day lo years afore that the young lad should grow to be strong of frame and quick of hand. So the boy grew in stature and strength, learning his warrior skills at the knee of the fairy hosts of the Great Queen, Morrigan. Upon his day of adulthood, he was christened by the Fairy Queen with title of The Elfin Knight."_

_Sarnait sat listening captivated by Padraiq's tale. Upon hearing the young lad's title, Elfin Knight, her eyes grew wide with wonder. She leaned forward, placing a dainty hand on his. "You? You are the young lad placed under a spell?"_

_The Knight bowed his head to her then answered, "It is I, Padraig O'Kelly, who was born a mortal child just as yourself. Lo all those years ago, my family was lost to me in order to serve at the behest of the Great Fairy Queen."_

_Tears welled within Sarnait's honey-colored eyes and dropped onto her cheeks. Padraiq reached forth and caught the glistening drops one by one and dried them each with his gentle fingers. "Do not cry, fair maiden. This curse of mine tis not your fault."_

"_I know, Sir Padraiq, but I still weep for all you have lost. Do you at any time take leave to your family?" She grasped hold of the hand stroking away her tears and pressed his palm to her cheek._

"_Nay, not in my elfin state." His thumb stroked over her crimson lips, "Oh my dear Sarnait, my only yearning, nay mine heart's deepest desire is the chance to come back, to be a mortal again and live in the realm of the living man."_

_Upon hearing Padraiq's sad tale, Sarnait grew heavy with sadness and her tears rushed forth. He wiped them away, imploring her not to be forlorn at his fate._

"_My dearest Padraiq," she wept, "...is there a chance, no matter how small that your heart's wish might come true?"_

"_Only one, but if it should fail, I shall never be granted another."_

"_Please tell me, my love, what chance may there be?" She rose on bended knee and placed a hand over her heart, "I swear an oath to thee and God above to give my sincerest help in achieving your quest."_

"_No, I pray thee my dearest Sarnait, I wilt not allow harm come to you, for Morrigan is the most powerful and evil of the fairy queens and her minions order high in number."_

"_Please, my dear Padraiq," she reached out softly touching his cheek, "…I shall not ever find peace until you are again a mortal!"_

_Padraiq held her hands within the strength of both of his, as he laid his heart bare in the sharing of the secret of his remedy. "Tonight on this night of great harvest feast, the Samhain…"_

'_*****'**_

* * *

Monday Morning  
October 23, 2017  
The CIA Offices  
American Embassy  
24 Grosvenor Square  
London, England

Michael trudged into the office two hours late after a particularly rigorous physical therapy session. His shoulder was killing him. The surgeon had reconstructed the damaged tendons and ligaments, but the resultant scar tissue had caused a severe adhesive capsulitis. He'd been undergoing intensive therapy for the last few weeks trying to regain his full range of motion and strength. He raised his right arm to shoulder height and grimaced under the pain. He could only lift about 15 pounds of weight, which was an improvement, but still a long way from 100%. He looked around his office and sighed, he couldn't wait to get away from that desk and back out into the field. He wasn't cut out for a paperwork gig.

He let the satchel on his left shoulder drop onto his desk with a thud. He'd spent the weekend reviewing case files. The CIA had suggested he consider other career options, which was just another form of legal jargon for "chained to a desk." There was no way he was going to spend the rest of his life pushing papers!

He headed out of his office in search of hot coffee and an ice pack for his throbbing shoulder. His assistant, Cynthia, who was attached to her phone as usual, tried to hand him a large stack of correspondence, but he declined with a shake of his head and motioned toward his office. There was no way he could handle a cup of coffee, an ice pack and that huge stack of "soul-sucking deadwood" in one trip. Well, maybe he could, but the deadwood could wait until he got back behind that "career-ending desk," before he had to shuffle through it.

All right, that's enough self-pity he chided. At this point, he was damn lucky to still have a job. Jonathon Simpson, his old handler, was out. And the way he'd slipped up the last few months, he was literally hanging by a thread. He figured the only reason he was still employed by the agency was because they couldn't kick his ass to the curb before they gave him a reasonable chance at rehab, but he'd be damned if he was sticking around to just push papers back and forth all day. In his earlier years with the agency, he'd figured he'd go out in a blaze of glory. Somehow he never imagined himself behind a desk, maybe a handler or trainer when he was old and gray, but not a freaking desk jockey. He rotated his right shoulder again and gasped. Placing the ice pack over the joint, he reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of Advil. Downing a couple of tablet with a big gulp of coffee, he began shuffling through the correspondence his assistant had so kindly deposited on his desk, along with a mountaintop of messages.

Halfway through the stack of paperwork, he came to a large Express Mail envelope and pulled it out from the heap. Glancing at the return address on the mailer insert, his stomach lurched when he noticed the name of the best divorce law firm in Miami. He pushed the black coffee aside and rummaged through his top drawer for a roll of antacids. Popping a couple of the chalky discs into his mouth, he chewed and swallowed hard, before ripping open the Express Mail envelope. He pulled out the thin stack of legal-sized paperwork and threw it onto his desk then retrieved the bottle of plain water he'd grabbed earlier in the morning.

Skimming through the first paragraph, he continued reading until he reached the line about the party of Fiona Glenanne. He couldn't say he was surprised, he'd been dreading this possibility for months now. Somehow they'd stopped getting along, so it became easier and easier for him to just stay away. It wasn't that they fought, because they rarely did. They just didn't communicate and interact with one another anymore.

"Communicate," he laughed out loud, who would've ever thought he, Michael Westen, would invoke that term when speaking about a relationship, and a married one at that. There was a time when the mere mention of the word "communicate," by either Fiona or his mom, would send him screaming from the room. He remembered his mother dragging him to counseling sessions when he first landed in Miami with the express purpose of "learning to communicate." He glanced down at the divorce documents and sighed humorlessly, maybe if he'd spent a little more time communicating with his wife, rather than running away, he wouldn't be losing her now. It wasn't like he wanted to run or even avoid spending time with her, truth was he missed her dearly. He just couldn't stand to peer into those disappointed eyes of hers anymore, especially knowing he was the cause.

He reached into his middle desk drawer and withdrew a framed photograph. It was a picture of he and Fiona taken a few years prior. Ruth and Charlie had come to Miami for a brief visit with the intent of Charlie remaining acquainted with his other family. Maddie had thrown a big picnic for everyone she'd ever known, so she could show off her only grandchild. Poor Charlie had quickly grown tired of all the welcome and fuss from people he didn't know. Fiona had ridden to his rescue with a popsicle and a lapful of love. He found the pair sitting off in a secluded corner of the backyard sharing the frozen treat. Totally mesmerized by the engaging view of his wife and nephew, he stood transfixed and staring in amazement at the beautiful pair. He'd never seen Fi with such a young child before, and he found himself engrossed by her loving attention and care. Thinking back on it now, he wasn't sure why her actions surprised him. He'd always known her to be tender and kind with those she loved, but there was just something magical about observing her with the small child. He found himself drawn to the captivating duo, wanting to be a part of their private world. His mother had captured them on film unaware, Fiona with Charlie in her lap, head dipped close to the toddler's ear, and he kneeling beside, his arms encircling his family, as he placed a kiss on Fi's cheek. Maddie proudly presented him with the prized photograph a few days later. He'd given Fi the smaller snapshot, but not until he had a larger print made for himself. He kept the framed picture hidden away in his office desk, buried at the bottom of a drawer, along with other of his favorite Fiona mementoes. He'd once told Fi he didn't like clutter, but that wasn't really the truth. He wanted to savor those precious memories in private, away from the teasing eyes of friends and colleagues. He'd spent his entire childhood learning to hide his real emotions from others for fear of harassment, retaliation and pain. He'd even found success in a career where that ability to portray detachment wasn't just important, it was essential to his survival, even if it worked to the detriment of those he loved.

He stared at the photo in his hand, running his finger over the smooth glass surface, tracing the outline of her beautiful face. He was lost in the moment, wanting desperately to have it all back. Just one more chance. A litany of maybes and if onlys marched through his head. Maybe if he'd spent less timing hiding and more time showing those emotions, or maybe if he'd spoken up and "communicated," he scolded himself. Maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't be losing the person he loved most in the world. He shoved aside the messages and teetering correspondence, placing the frame central on his desk. A dull thud echoed loudly through the room, as his right elbow intersected with the desktop sending intense rockets of pains shooting through his shoulder like fireworks in the night sky. He welcomed the ache in his muscles, as it overwhelmed and masked the one in his heart. Agitated fingers gripped and pulled at his hair, as he tried to silence the cacophony of voices shouting blame in his head. He reached for a pen with his left hand then tossed it aside, as his heart screamed out, DON'T SIGN! Taking a deep breath then another, he sought to clear the angry voices, delving deeper for an alternative solution, another way out. If only he had another chance, he swore he would do things differently. He glanced back at the photo, studying her every detail and struggled to go back in time to that precise moment when everything went wrong. The blush of her cheek, the curve of her leg, the smile breaking ever so softly across her lips.

Back in the beginning, after Anson, he'd felt guilty for all her loss. He had singlehandedly ripped from her all the things she held most dear. First it was her country and family, through his unyielding determination to regain his former life, then came her freedom, when he fought with blind rage to topple the instigator of his pain. Finally, it was her livelihood and biggest source of joy, when he threatened to cast off all principles of honor and integrity in search of his quest, those very ideologies, which tied her heart to his. He'd tried to tell her from the very beginning it was best to stay away, but she refused to listen, instead giving heed to her heart, and now all his initial doubts and misgiving had proven to be true. He had placed her in danger, and even worse, neglected her love.

Ever the cool and collected spy, he'd never once considered marriage until Anson came along. He just wasn't good at relationships; an excuse he oft told himself, schooled from a young child that they only brought responsibilities and pain. Once Fi had signed her contract with the CIA and was released from jail, he'd requested the first assignment out of town. He had stuck around just long enough to ensure her comfort and safety in the loft, but then he was gone. He didn't want to spend hours discussing the fallout from Anson, nor did he want to watch the FBI confiscate her arsenal of weapons and artillery. The evening she was released, he'd awoken in the middle of the night to find her sitting upstairs on the couch softly caressing a pistol. It was her HK USP with the silver slide. She must have found it in his desk drawer hiding among his things. He wanted to climb the stairs and comfort her, but she looked so despondent and lost he couldn't make himself move. So like the weakling he was when it came to emotional attachments, he released a stifled cough and turned over in bed. The noise was enough to rouse her from her private musings. She stuffed the gun back in his drawer and tiptoed back to bed. Once she was under the covers, he blindly sought her out, pulling her close to his chest. It was the most reassurance he could force himself to offer and he knew in that moment he needed to get away. The very next afternoon, he was flying to Europe, while she was meeting with the FBI. Fi arrived home that evening to an empty loft and a note left on her pillow. He knew it was the coward's way out, but he just couldn't look at the emptiness reflected in her eyes.

He returned to Miami several months later, hoping Fi was over the worst of her loss. He suggested dinner that night and proposed to her with an engagement ring secured via an old asset in Antwerp. He hoped her favored setting would say everything his beleaguered heart could not. They were married a few days later at city hall, just the two of them, with county workers serving as witnesses. He wasn't sure why the idea of marriage felt so urgent; he just knew he couldn't risk losing her. And if marriage was to be their eternal bond then he reckoned it was best to hurl caution to the wind and tether her to him permanently. She tried to portray contentment during their phone conversations while he was gone, but he could detect the sorrow-ringing hollow in her voice. Perhaps that was the impetus for his abrupt change of course, or maybe it was the guilt, he hadn't been able to decipher between the two. Of one thing he was certain, he loved her and had from the very start way back in Ireland. He allowed himself to lose her once, but had no intention of allowing that catastrophe to recur.

He'd thrown himself into married life whenever the opportunity of proximity allowed. He never wanted her to regret her commitment to him. She'd once told him _his job made it hard to be with him_, so he did everything in his power to really "be there" when he was home. The first couple of years had been relatively simple. They bought a house, moved in and made a home. Life went on. They were truly happy. He worked hard at fulfilling all those _day-to-day moments_ Fi told him were so important.

Then the pregnancy came….

The whole thing had been a surprise to both of them. They'd never discussed having children. He just assumed they both agreed it wasn't an option in light of their unconventional life. Besides, they weren't getting any younger, he laughed, and tossed that worry aside. Of course, they'd taken the necessary precautions, which was why he was so shocked when the idea suddenly "popped" into his head. He had come home after a short assignment in a war-torn country to find her moody and drawn. She blamed her sullen behavior and emotional outbursts on his absence, hence the reason he didn't understand their persistence more than a week back into their routine life. He was visiting with his mother a week later, when he mentioned Fi's foul mood. Not one to find fault with her daughter-in-law, Maddie had immediately inquired about what "he'd" done to upset her. His reply of "nothing" had been equally swift. He went on to describe Fiona's exhaustion and poor appetite, blaming it on her schedule at the shelter and overall stress. His mother sauntered into the kitchen from the dining room and bent down with an emotionless mask of expression, before breaking out in a huge smile the likes of which, if he had too admit, rivaled the morning sun.

"Michael, don't you understand what's going on?" His mother ribbed, all the while chewing on her lower lip to stifle her joy. He knew she was up to something, but wasn't sure what.

"Obviously not," he groused from under the kitchen sink, groaning in pain when the rusty adapter gave way, catching his finger between the pipe and his wrench. He dropped the wrench on the floor, sucking his finger into his mouth and peered out from between the cabinet doors. "If I knew what was going on, don't you think I'd fix it? You know Fiona, she's hell on wheels when she's in one of her moods." He laid his head down on the cabinet floor and had just picked up the wrench, when he bellowed back, "And it's not my fault! I haven't done anything to upset her," he cut off his mother's smart retort before she could add her two cents.

Maddie giggled like a small child with a wicked secret, "Oh, but it is, my boy!"

"What are you talking about?" He spun out from under the cabinet and dropped the old disposal on the kitchen floor. "She was like this when I got home, and I've been very careful not to upset her. I've taken her out for dinner, gone shopping and even apologized for things I didn't do!" He threw up his arms in frustration, catching his mother's eye with an annoyed scowl.

"Still your fault," Maddie teased back in a singsong voice.

He rolled his eyes heavenward, before reaching for the new disposal and disappearing back under the cabinet again. "If you say so," he muttered under his breath.

"Well, who else do you think got Fiona pregnant? I seriously doubt she managed it all by herself," Maddie chuckled with delight.

"I don't know…" his voice petered out, as he gasped for breath. "PREGNANT!" He shrieked, rising up so fast, he knocked his forehead on the cabinet frame. The disposal fell from his hand with a thud, followed by a string of expletives as the heavy object came down hard on the same hand as before.

Maddie knelt down with a broad knowing smile, happiness dancing in her eyes. "Yes, pregnant," she couldn't stop the ecstatic giggle, which escaped her lips. "I take it Fiona didn't mention the possibility?"

"AH…NO," he grumbled, rubbing the angry welt forming on his forehead. He stared at his mother for a moment then shook his head with an arrogant smirk, "No way, that's not possible. I mean we've…well, we never…we couldn't…" He stumbled over his words trying to find the right excuse.

"Don't tell me you never," Maddie stood upright, arms akimbo, "…I've seen the two of you, when you think no one is looking! So don't you 'never' me, young man," she threw in a wag of her finger for good measure, cigarette ashes hitting the floor.

"Moooom," Michael immediately intervened, "…don't go there."

"Well," she tossed back with a confrontational glare.

Michael paused in his movement, staring off into space, "You don't think…." The pipe came loose from the sink and smacked him in the head. "Daaaamn!"

"Michael," Madeline yelled, "…come out from below that sink, before you kill yourself, then go home and talk to your wife!"

When he arrived home, he found Fiona at the kitchen table cautiously sipping a cup of mint tea. He'd debated with himself the whole way home how best to broach the subject. The last thing he wanted to imply was that she was difficult, sickly looking, or even worse, fat, but when he saw her gingerly sipping tea, all his plans flew out the window.

He blurted out, "Fiona, are you preg…?

"Michael, what happened to your head?" She interrupted before he could ask his full question.

He reached up to finger the bump, which was already turning black and blue. "I hit my head on the cabinet, while working under mom's sink."

"Well, you need to be more careful!" She jumped up to retrieve an ice pack, but quickly stopped, clenching her eyes shut, as she wobbled in place. Throwing out her hands to break her fall, she stood perfectly still waiting for the dizziness to pass.

"Fi, what's wrong?"

She threw a hand over her mouth and another around her waist. "Dizzy," she moaned, all the while trying to control her dry heaves. He wrapped an arm around her waist, supporting her weight, until she stopped shaking.

"Feeling better now?" She nodded her assent. Helping her back to her seat, he pushed the teacup within reach. "Here, maybe this will help." He waited until she swallowed a few sips then reach out to push a strand of hair from her face.

"Fi," he began nervously, "…this 'thing' you have…."

"I don't have a 'THING', Michael," she tried to push him aside, but he held steady trying to appease her. Softening his voice, he tried again, "Um, I've been thinking…is there any possible chance you might be…pregnant?"

"That's such a guy thing to say," she jumped up, shoving him out of her way, "…blame every emotional outburst and argument on a woman's…." She stopped mid sentence and stared blankly up at the ceiling.

"Ohhhh!"

"Fi?"

She marched out of the kitchen toward the bedroom with Michael trailing in fast pursuit, his eyes veering to and fro at every doorway, as he planned his best path of escape. Fi tugged open the top drawer of her nightstand, pulling out a calendar. Leafing backward several pages, her hand flew to her mouth stifling a groan. Throwing the calendar aside, she fell back on the bed, arms covering her face.

"It didn't even occur to me," she muttered, shaking her head in disbelief. "We've been so careful."

He sat down beside her, pulling her into his embrace. "So Fi, are you saying?

"Yeees, Michael…yesss! That's exactly what I'm saying!" She stuttered out the words, before bursting into tears. Michael stared on in horror, unsure of how to take her reaction.

They performed a home pregnancy test, more than one actually. They'd even purchased several different brands, each claiming to be more accurate than the next. All turned positive. Fi still called the doctor from the women's shelter under the pretense of an emergency.

When Michael questioned the validity of the call, her only response was, "Well, at least it was to us!"

They were seen the very same day. Neither looked at the other all the way to the clinic. Once the doctor confirmed the results, he sent the bewildered couple on their way with a bottle of prenatal vitamins and a recommendation for follow-up with her OB/GYN within the week. He explained the pregnancy was considered high-risk, since she was an "elderly" primigravida. Fiona was none too thrilled to be christened with the title of "elderly." They drove home in stunned silence, both too afraid to inquire about the other's thoughts.

Maddie called later that evening fishing for news. It was the first time either of them acknowledged the disturbing results. Maddie was over-the-moon with excitement about the baby, while Michael and Fi remained perplexed. It wasn't until they finally settled into their bed for the night that Michael decided to broach the subject of the rather large elephant in the room.

"Fi?" Michael turned on his side, amused to find his wife applying lotion to her muscularly toned abdomen.

"Mmmm?" She murmured back, deep in concentration, as she studied the label of the concoction she'd picked up earlier at the drug store. The advertisement plastered in bold letters across the front of the tube claimed to be a "miracle cure" for stretch marks.

"What'cha doing?" A bemused smile spread across his face, as humor danced behind his eyelids.

"If you must know," she huffed, shooting him a warning glare, "…I'm trying to prevent the stretch marks, which are all your fault!"

"My fault?" His mouth gaped wide, as he feigned insult.

"Yes, your fault!" She tossed the tube of miracle lotion at his head. He caught the tube mid air and studied the ridiculous assertion emblazoned across the front in large black capital letters.

"Does it work?" He tried valiantly to hold back the laughter, which threatened to burst forth at her expense.

"Michael Weston!" She fumed, throwing her body dramatically into the mound of her pillows. Her arms instinctively crossed over her face, as she tried to hide her embarrassment.

He chastised himself for finding pleasure in her, rather their, predicament. Rolling closer to her side, he lifted up the cotton top of her baby doll pajamas and peeked briefly toward her face. She was busy eyeing him from a slit between her arms. He popped open the top of the miracle cream, squeezed out a sizeable dollop and began massaging it into the tanned skin of her lower abdomen. She scowled at his motions, as she tried not to laugh when he found a particularly sensitive spot.

He leaned closer still, a few inches from her skin and whispered, "Hey, little one, try not to be too hard on your mother's body, or she'll kick my ass from here till Tuesday."

Fiona released a jittery laugh, which rapidly deteriorated to a sob. Michael pulled her into his arms trying to soothe her raw emotions. She burrowed her face in the hollow of his neck, avoiding his gaze. Rubbing a hand up and down her back in a gentle caress, he whispered words of comfort until her cries relaxed to shudders and slowly ebbed away.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled into his neck, refusing his attempts to draw away.

"It's okay," he whispered, nuzzling his cheek against her hair.

She pulled back slightly, ducking her face from his view, "I don't know what's come over me."

"I do," he hooked a finger below her chin, attempting to lift her head.

She fought his efforts, "I'm sorry, Michael," she sighed in frustration at the repeated phrase. "I don't know why I keep saying that," she shook her head, causing his finger to drop away. She lifted her hand to trail a finger down his breastbone then rested her palm flat against his chest.

He scooped her up, as he relaxed back against his pillows, her head coming to rest over his heart. Running his fingers lightly through her hair, he tried again. "Want to talk about it?"

She drew in several breaths, a slight tremor racking her body with each inhalation. "I know this wasn't what you wanted, but honestly, I didn't plan…."

"Fi," he sternly interjected, "…I never thought you planned this, and who said I didn't want it?"

She looked up at him chagrinned, dropping her chin onto the hand on his chest, "But we never talked about…."

"I know," he gentled his voice, "…just because it wasn't planned, doesn't mean it can't happen, unless…" he voice drifted off, as his wrinkled his brow.

"Unless what?" She hung on his every word.

"Well," he shrugged, "…I didn't ask if you wanted…I mean if you don't…." He clammed up buckling his lips together.

"If I don't?" Her brow furrowed deeply, as she looked up in question. Her eyes suddenly grew wide, "Michael, you can't possibly think I would get rid…."

He shook his head nervously to and fro, "No! No, I mean…."

"Michael, just so you know, I'm having this baby, whether it fits into your life or not!"

"Good!" A smile grew across his face, as he drew her close again. His feisty Fi was back, that one he knew well.

"Good?" She questioned, her lips hovering over his.

"Good," he whispered back, his eyes gazing into hers until the very moment their lips touched. When they separated, he placed another feather light kiss on her forehead then tucked her safe and sound atop his chest.

Neither uttered another word, although they both stared out into the empty darkness of the room for hours, contemplating the complexities of their future. Weeks went by, as each busied themselves with preparations. Neither offered much in the way of opinions or suggestions, about their plight. Whether happy, contented or dismayed the other never really knew. It was just taken for granted they'd plotted a new course in their unconventional life. Fi settled into planning a nursery and shopping for baby things. She occasionally queried him about potential names, baby equipment, themes and colors. He acquiesced to all her decisions, afraid to upend their tentative truce.

A few weeks after learning of their life changes, Michael was deployed to parts unknown. They settled into their customary phone contact, upgraded now to weekly, but still devoid of specifics and locale. She updated him on medical appointments, scheduled tests and progress of the nursery. He'd been gone a month, when his handler unexpectedly called with news to contact his mother. When he was finally able to reach her, Maddie tearfully explained the situation regarding Fiona's medical complications and pregnancy loss. She rambled on about surgery, female things and procedures to remove dead tissue. Halfway through the conversation he tuned her out save for the most important detail, he needed to be with his wife.

He caught the first flight back to Miami, the mission placed on a temporary hold. He stumbled up the aircraft stairs with great difficulty, as exhaustion and emotional baggage weighed him down. He dropped into his first class seat sending a prayer of thanks to his handler. The flight attendant's gravelly voice blasted on the overhead dispensing the usual instructions and precautions given on every flight. He swore he could quote them from memory, but at the moment all he wanted was for her to shut-up. An hour into the flight, the same attendant circulated among the first class passengers offering free drinks and beverages. A strong scent of alcohol consumed the air combining with the stale smell of airline food, and his stomach began to lurch. Jumping from his seat, he flew to the front lavatory only to find himself at the back of a steady line of fellow travelers. When the bathroom door finally opened, he pushed himself ahead of the others, hand clamped over mouth, as he muttered his apologies. As the door locked behind him, he wretched over and over again emptying the sour contents of his stomach. Leaning heavily on the small sink, he rinsed cool water over his face and stared back at his pale reflection in the mirror. His detached spy façade slowly began to crack. He fell backward onto the toilet, releasing deep, soul wrenching sobs over their loss. He hadn't realized just how dear all the possibilities of their future had grown. His dreams of a daughter with her mother's beguiling eyes and quick wit, or a son with his persistence and fortitude crumbled into ashes on that small bathroom floor.

He silently cracked open the door to her hospital room at two the next morning, exhausted and emotionally spent from his long journey home. Sliding his duffle bag into a chair near the door, he tiptoed over to her bed and watched her sleep. Slivers of soft moonlight filtered through the blinds of the large window, allowing him to take in her delicate facial features long since tattooed on his heart. The chalky paleness of her skin was obvious to him even in the dim light. Her face blended into the stark white pillow beneath her head, offering a sharp contrast to the halo of dark curls spread out beside her. His eyes drifted downward to the mound of her body covered by a sheet, and he marveled at the smallness of her lithe form in the expanse of the hospital bed. Tears prickled at his eyes, but he sniffed them back, needing to be strong for her. He reached out gently caressing her cheek with the back of his fingers, when she stirred he pulled back, not wanting to rouse her from slumber. Her eyes blinked open and closed, adjusting to the faint light of the room, as she noted his silhouette in the shadows. She knew it was him even before he spoke, so accustomed to his form and scent, the beat of her heart called out in anticipation.

"Michael?" Her voice was faint and raspy, as she reached out for him.

He stepped closer still, his knees abutting the mattress. Reaching out to grasp her hand, he whispered back, "I'm here, Fi."

"Michael," her voice broke on a sob, as she tugged him closer, pulling him onto the bed. He toed off his shoes, sitting beside her on the mattress. She kept tugging his hand, rolling onto her side, until he was spooned behind her. He gingerly wrapped her in his arms, careful not to inflict more pain.

She clutched to his hand, pulling with all her might, tightening his embrace. Tucking her face to his hands, she kissed his skin. He could feel the dampness of her tears, as they dropped into his palm. He peppered the crown of hair with light kisses, not knowing what to say. They laid there as the minutes passed; the moonlight dancing in curvy lines across their intertwined bodies.

"It was a girl," she finally broke the engulfing silence of the dark room. Inhaling a deep shuddering breath, she cried out, "I'm soooo sorrrrry." She rolled into his chest, grasping at his sides.

"Sssh," he whimpered back, "…nooot yourrr fault."

They clung to one another, neither offering additional words of sympathy, seeking only the comfort of the other's touch. The footsteps and soft echoes of the hospital ward filtered in around them, creating a bizarre sort of lullaby. He pressed his lips to her hair in a running refrain timed to the odd music. Just has he felt her relax into sleep, he caught her breath in a whisper against his skin.

"What Fi?"

Her speech slurred as slumber nipped at the edges of her consciousness, and he had to cock his ear closer to her lips just to hear her sad prose. "Never know how…much…want…something…'til gone." He tightened his embrace at her heartbreaking words. "Really wanted…this…."

He closed his eyes to stifle his tears, as he whispered back, "I knooww."

Early the next morning the obstetrician came by making his rounds, a computer rover tethered to his side. Michael stepped out of the bathroom drying his face on a scratchy, hospital-issued white towel just as the physician had finished his exam and was lowering Fiona's gown back over her legs.

The doctor stood up, took a few steps toward Michael and peered over his glasses. Taking in the young man before him with a frown of disapproval the white haired gentleman finally spoke, "Well, it appears as if the happy wanderer is finally home. I was beginning to think you were just a myth," extending his white-coated arm, the physician introduced himself to Michael, all the while casting a light-hearted wink in Fiona's direction.

Michael bristled under the older man's stare, before deflecting his eyes in embarrassment. He wondered how many fathers the doctor actually met ahead of the delivery in the hospital. Before he could finish his thought, memories of Fiona's exasperated words echoed through his head chastising him for missing her recent ultrasound. Momentarily disconcerted, Michael excused himself to replace the hand towel back in the bathroom, while the older man flicked through the various windows of patient information on his portable computer screen.

Michael returned to the room in time to hear the doctor sigh, "Well Fiona, I'm afraid I won't be discharging you today. I hoped your repeat blood count would be better, but you're still very anemic. Even with the D&C, you still hemorrhaged more than I would've liked."

Michael drifted to Fi's side, reaching for her hand, "Is she going to be all right?"

The older gentleman nodded then cocked his head to the side, "Yes, she should be fine in time, but her blood count is a bit worrisome for now. We could try to wait it out and start supplemental iron, if you'd like, but it will take weeks before you notice any difference. Fiona, I'm afraid you're going to be quite exhausted." He glanced back to the computer screen and frowned again, "And your blood pressure is still rather low while you're laying flat, not to mention sitting up or standing."

"I'd really prefer to go home," Fi spoke out, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears. Michael reached for her hand giving it a squeeze.

Looking back to the obstetrician, Michael asked, "Is there any other way to get her home?"

"Well," the doctor rubbed a spot on his chin, "…we could give her some blood like I suggested last night. That would give her a boost, until the iron kicks in."

"Fi?" Michael gazed at his wife, not aware of the physician's previous recommendation.

Fiona dropped her head, "I didn't want…."

"But if it gets you home," he reached out to caress her cheek, raising her face in the process. She nodded her assent to the transfusion. Michael stared into her sorrowful eyes a second more, before turning back to the doctor. "Once she's had the transfusion, how soon until she can come home?"

The doctor typed in the orders as he spoke. "The nurse will be in shortly to obtain blood consent. It will probably take an hour or two to type and cross for the packed cells. She should receive the units this afternoon, but I'd like to keep an eye on her vital signs through the night. If there's no significant bleeding, her blood pressure stays up and her hematocrit is better tomorrow, then I'd say she can be discharged tomorrow morning." He closed the computer screen and motioned for Michael to follow him into the hall.

Fiona clutched at Michael's arm, none to happy to be left out of the conversation. He leaned forward to kiss her forehead then whispered, "I'll be right back," before stepping out of the room.

Once outside, the doctor gave Michael a list of instructions Fiona needed to follow, including having someone by her side for the next couple of weeks and inquired as to whether that was possible. Michael assured the physician there wouldn't be a problem. The elder man then offered his sympathy for the couple's loss. As the doctor turned to walk away, he pivoted back with an empathetic look. He explained to the younger man that it was unlikely they would be able to carry another child to term due to Fiona's age and history of bleeding. Michael nodded his understanding, his eyes drifting sadly to the floor. The doctor lifted a hand to Michael's shoulder and squeezed, as he uttered a soft apology.

When Michael came back into the room, Fiona immediately asked about the conversation, but he deterred her with the doctor's instruction of not being alone and needing help for the next two weeks. She pegged him with a look of doubt, but he smiled back, assuring her he wasn't going anywhere. As the morning progressed, Fi napped off and on, until lunch arrived. She turned up her nose at the hospital food. Just as the nurse had started her blood, Fi noticed Michael yawning from the adjacent chair. She convinced him to head home for a nap with instructions not to return before evening. He declined the suggestion until his mother arrived and offered to be his stand-in. As he gathered his things, Maddie stepped out to grab a cup of coffee, giving the couple a moment of privacy.

"Michael, can you do something for me," she whispered in a broken voice, as he leaned in for a kiss goodbye.

"Anything, Fi," he wiped away a tear as it broke free from the swell of her lashes.

"Clean out the nursery," she choked on the words.

"Fi," he couldn't hide the tears in his own voice.

"Please Michael," she played with the buttons of his shirt, "…I just can't come home to that room, knowing there will never be…."

He pulled her into his embrace, murmuring his reply, "Whatever you want, Fi. Whatever you want."

"Give," her voice quivered thick with emotion, "…give the thiiiiings…awaaaay to…charrrrity." She couldn't form another word.

Hugging her tight, he kissed her cheek, "How about the women's shelter." She nodded her agreement, and with one final kiss, he was gone.

He arrived home to a house that was way to quiet and empty without Fi there chattering about life in his absence, as she bustled about in her daily activities. He ditched his bag by the front door, as he watched the taxi pull out of the drive. Wandering through the front rooms, he took note of the stack of mail toppled sideways on his desk. He walked into the kitchen and flicked on the lights. Reaching into the fridge, he retrieved a cup of yogurt and a spoon from the nearby drawer. He trudged over to the French doors, his footsteps heavy with fatigue and stared out into the expanse of the backyard. The pool was crystal blue and shimmering in the afternoon sun. He caught sight of some newly planted flowers drooping in the Miami heat and made a note to water them before heading back to the hospital for the night. As the first bite of yogurt hit his tongue, his stomach churned in discontent. He walked back to the sink and washed the rest down the drain, setting the spoon onto the counter. He trekked back to the master bedroom to change into jeans and a t-shirt, as knowledge of his afternoon chore weighed heavy on his shoulders. He veered on his path to the closet for a quick shower hoping to revive some energy.

Finally clothed and standing outside the nursery, he peered around the cracked door. Fiona had wanted to keep it a surprise until finished. She had shared tidbits of information about the general design with him in their weekly phone calls, but no real details. He hadn't known what to expect, but the overwhelming emotion of his endeavor crushed at his chest, nearly stealing his breath away. Shaking his head in defeat at all the loss they'd endured over the last 10 years, he closed his eyes and pressed forward through the threshold. He stood absolutely still in the middle of the room, eyes still clenched tight, waiting for the dread to pass. Opening his eyes a few seconds later, he was immediately blinded by the rise of tears, as the details of their baby's room came into view. The walls had already been painted their base coat of warm cream, anxiously awaiting the mural Fiona was to select once they knew the gender of their child. A beautiful wooden crib was partially assembled in front of the expanse of double windows overlooking the backyard. Bookcases had been added on a sidewall and already held children's storybooks, a teddy bear and a smattering of snow globes. He wandered toward the glass balls taking note of their childhood theme of nursery rhymes. Opening a nearby closet, he found stacks of tiny diapers, small t-shirts and sleepers folded neatly among the side shelves and on the floor sat the two boxes of his old toys, a model airplane perched atop. He turned away from the treasures, which would never be used by their child. In a corner of the room was an old antique rocking chair, already sanded and refinished. He recognized the relic from their days in Ireland. The chair had belonged to Fi's grandmother. Sean had carefully restored the old heirloom, before shipping it stateside for another generation of Glenanne babies to be rocked off to sleep. Fi had mentioned the gift on their last phone call. He stared at the old rocker wondering when he'd become so sentimental. His thoughts drifted to his old trainer at Langley, and he chuckled thinking of the lecture he'd receive if the guys only knew. He cast off the thought as soon as it came; there was something to be said for ties of attachment and welcomed greetings on your arrival home. The now quiet house spoke volumes as to the despair of the alternative. He ran a finger over the soft finish of the old wood and set the chair to rocking. All it needed, he sadly mused, was Fiona gently singing as she nursed their child to sleep.

The ringing phone roused him from his thoughts. He pulled the cell from his pocket and took note of Sam's name and number. He clicked the button on to hear his friend expressing his deepest regrets and sympathies. As soon as Michael told him of his task, Sam offered a helping hand and disconnected before Michael could refuse. Between the two of them the bedroom was quickly cleared and loaded into the truck Sam had brought along. Waving goodbye with promises to return in a few days, Sam drove off to the shelter. Michael returned to the nursery to retrieve the remaining treasure. Lifting the rocker into his arms, he started off for the attic. There was no way he could part with the chair figuring Fiona would want the heirloom in her keeping, even if it was a long time in the future before it saw use.

He glanced at his watch, taking note of the time, as he headed back to the bedroom. He'd checked in with his mother only to learn Fi was still resting. He figured he had time to grab dinner from her favorite place, before heading back to spend the night. Packing a small overnight case with his essential toiletries, he rounded the doorway of his study in search of his keys. Opening the middle drawer of his desk, he found a thin wrapped package with his name affixed by a bow. He pulled out the gift immediately recognizing the insignia of an exclusive children's boutique stuck to the center of the ribbon. He debated with himself whether to open the gift then finally deciding it was best, as Fiona would be home the next day. Sliding a finger under the gold seal of the insignia, the paper simply fell away revealing a pink onesie with the words "Daddy's Girl" emblazed across the front. He stared at the tiny garment trying to imagine a life so small. Fingering the delicate weave of the cotton, his legs began to shake, before completely giving out. He fell to the floor, garment clutched in his hand, as his emotions crested and rolled over him in waves of never ending despair.

Fiona had been discharged as planned. Over the next few weeks, she was weak and clinically depressed. She took to spending hours and then days in bed, feigning exhaustion and loss of appetite. He remained supportive, taking over the household tasks, cooking, cleaning and shopping, all the while arranging a caseload he could easily handle from home. His superiors expressed dismay, clearly not happy with altering their plans for collection of intel. He reminded them of his dedication throughout the years, despite being abandoned, as well as, his efforts to bring down their fiercest foe. He listened to their ongoing complaints and threats, all the while, declaring his wife came first. As he watched over Fi in her fragile state, he thought it best not to mention the conversation with her physician or to remove all thoughts of hope. He just quietly went about day-to-day life never wallowing in his own pain or feelings of loss, except in those rare moments away from his wife. He never wanted her to feel guilt or any personal responsibility for their loss. Fate had spoken and a life they'd never consciously chosen had been cut off. As the weeks passed, they slowly and meticulously extinguished all utterances of words like baby, pregnancy and loss from their daily conversation.

Eight weeks after the miscarriage, Michael was dispatched to D.C. to serve as a local trainer for the next few months. Figuring it was much closer than worlds unknown, he jumped at the chance. Fiona called him out of the blue and announced it was time to start trying again. They were not getting any younger and her pregnancy would remain high-risk, her excuses fluttered like butterflies across the line. He couldn't bring himself to shatter her dream, so he dutifully traveled home for weekends and short day jaunts. Their lives turned into calendars, schedules and "ideal" times. Long awaited romantic interludes were cast aside in favor of spurts of duty and responsibility. Their relationship took another hit as intimacy and love gave way to fertility demands.

Suddenly six months into the process of trying to conceive, it dawned on him he hadn't received his monthly phone call. He arranged for a week's vacation, his arrival home completely unplanned. He found Fi napping in the middle of the day or so he thought. She was reclined on her chaise lounge, blinds drawn and bedroom nearly dark. He deposited his luggage in the master closet and was about to leave the room, when he heard her soft cries.

"Fi?" He called out, circling back to her side.

"Michael, what are you doing here?" She cleared her throat and fumbled to wipe the tears from her eyes.

"I took the week off to spend with you." He sat down beside her. "I hadn't heard from you in a while."

Her gaze dropped to a small pink blanket clutched in her hands. "There wasn't a point," she mumbled softly and turned her head to look away.

"What do you mean?" He reached up to caress her cheek, but she pulled away.

"I saw a specialist last week," she drew in a shuddering breath, "…it's not going to work out for us." She caught his stunned look from the corner of her eye and grasped his hand, hurrying on in her explanation. "About the pregnancy…a baby…it's never going to be."

A tear slid down her cheek and he gently dabbed it away, "Oh Fi, I'm so sorry."

She shrugged, fighting back her emotions, "It's wasn't you…it's my fault."

He drew her into his arms, hugging her tightly, as she cried, "It's okay…it's okay…." He whispered in a quiet refrain.

When the last of her tears had died out, she pulled away and flashed him an unconvincing slight smile, "I guess you can't mourn what you never intended to be."

He graced her with his own weak smile and nodded a stilted reply, "Guess not." His hand brushed against the pile of the pink baby blanket. He lifted the corner of the coverlet stroking his thumb over the soft satin edging. "What's this," he asked, confused by its presence. He was sure he had collected all the treasured baby items after that horrible night.

"Nothing," she hopelessly feigned ignorance, all the while drawing the soft cloth from his hands.

He reached out to halt her frantic movements, "It's okay, Fi. It's just that I thought I got all the babbbb…," the word died on his tongue.

"It wasn't hers," she rushed out on an anguished gust of soft air, tucking more and more of the blanket against her chest. "Please don't take it!"

"Fiiiii, I'm not going to…wait, who's is it?" His thoughts changed course with his vacillating emotions. He suddenly took note of initials embroidered in white thread on the corner covered by her hand. Small rosebuds, leaves and vines intertwined and wrapped round the three cursive letters. He squinted in the dim light, but all he could clearly discern was the delicate script of a "C" and an "A." Her fingers splayed out obscuring the details from his probing eyes, as she finally wrenched the blanket from his grasp.

"It was Claire's," she gushed, before he could probe deeper. She held the pink blanket to her cheek, absorbing the tears as they fell.

He sighed his understanding, lifting a finger to stroke the wisps of dark curls from her eyes. "I guess," he ducked his head trying to capture her gaze, "…it only makes sense that all the recent events would remind you of other losses."

"Yeesss," she closed her eyes, as her tears continued one by one.

He sat with her for several minutes, running his fingers through her hair, until her tears subsided and she yawned, exhausted from all the emotional turmoil.

"Tired?" She nodded her reply. He was about to suggest a nap, when he took note of the time. "Have you eaten today?" Her "no" was barely audible. He stood up and leaned forward, kissing her cheek, "How about I make you a cup of your favorite tea and a sandwich?"

"Grilled Cheese?" Her eyes momentarily lit up in anticipation. He nodded with a grin; it was one of her favorite comfort foods.

As he turned to walk away, she called out, "Four kinds of cheese and Irish butter?"

"Always," he chuckled, "…I know just how you like it!" And he did! It was one of the first "delicacies" he had mastered back in their early days in Ireland.

As he milled about the kitchen, his mind wandering back to her declaration of finality in pursuit of their baby dreams. He was determined not to allow her to accept fault. It didn't matter who was physically responsible for their new reality; he knew deep down he was as much to blame as her, maybe even more. If only he'd brought her with him from Ireland, committed to her sooner, or been man enough to raise the question of her desire for a family all those years before. She was right in her slurred assertion on that miserable night, _you don't know what you want, until the possibility is gone._

Flipping her sandwich onto the delicate china plate she so loved when feeling ill; he reached for the matching cup and saucer and arranged them all carefully on a wicker bedside tray. He added a Waterford goblet filled with her favorite spring water and topped with a slice of lime, then went in search of their finest Irish linens, all wedding gifts from her folks. Finding the desired linens scattered among their silverware, serving pieces and other dining paraphernalia in the large buffet, he clumsily folded the napkin into something resembling a bird. Or maybe it was a reptile. He laughed at his futile attempt then grabbed a place setting of their best silver to complete the effect. If anyone was in need of special pampering, it was his wife. He lifted the tray from the counter and headed back to their master suite. He found her sound asleep in her favorite chair, pink blanket nowhere in sight. He sighed in disappointment, as he stared down at his gourmet feat of love. Placing the serving tray aside, he tugged a cashmere throw from the foot of their bed and placed it over her small form. He stood there in amazement, as he gazed at her in the dim filtered light. She always looked so small and delicate when sleeping; it was hard to reconcile that current childlike form with her larger-than-life persona while awake. He kneeled down to trace a fingertip over her cheek then followed it with the softest caress of his lips.

"Sleep well, Fi," he whispered, as he carried the lunch tray from the room then added those rarely spoken words, "…I love you."

During his week of vacation, Fiona became more withdrawn and despondent, spending days in her favorite chair in the bedroom. He suggested speaking with her physician or a counselor from the shelter. She refused claiming no need. Small disagreements escalated unnecessarily to wars. On the rare occasions they communicated without having words, he noticed the life had gone out of her eyes. And his guilt further spread, germinated and grew. The day before he was to travel back to Washington, he received a phone call from his handler. He was being dispatched on an assignment to Western Europe. He argued his case to stay close to home, but his words no longer held weight. He was ordered to go or suffer disciplinary action. When he related the information to Fi, she offered nary a word of complaint, simply tuning him out in favor of her private world of torment and hell.

Attempts to engage her in discussion during rare phone calls, failed miserably. He often found her hard to locate during convenient moments, suspecting she was screening her calls. Their frequent hits or misses, eventually turned into infrequent attempts to maintain any form of communication. He felt guilty as hell for leaving her, and even more, for her current plight. The end of her family dreams was the fourth major loss attributable directly to him, or so he believed. As worries about her increasingly consumed his thoughts, his focus on the assignment waned. He was reprimanded for being cavalier and disjointed, as key mission details were ignored or missed. His base of operation was shifted from the Baltics to Venezuela, as they tracked the sale of Soviet arms. It was while strolling down the streets of Porto La Cruz his worst nightmare came true. He was busy courting his most recent contact, the niece of the arms dealer in question, when they bumped into Fiona. His quick response was the only thing, which saved the mission, but he paid for it in spades. He swore the look of betrayal in Fi's eyes would haunt him to his grave.

He'd been unable to get clearance long enough to contact her, until a break in the case some fours days later. When he arrived home just before 2 a.m., he felt decidedly uncomfortable invading her personal space until he'd had a chance to explain. That decision was followed by an unfortunate encounter the following morning, which placed them both on edge. He'd offered to fix breakfast while she showered and changed. They spent a few tense moments at the table, before fate stepped in and offered them a second chance. Despite their loving reunion, they were nervous and uncomfortable in the presence of the other. He resorted to sleeping in the guest room more nights than not, as he was consumed with guilt and the need to regain her trust. Three weeks later he was gone again to parts unknown, neither of them confident in the stability of their marriage.

The next eight months away were even rockier than the six before. His handler was riding his six at every turn. They were so close to gaining the confidence of the man at the top. A 2 year endeavor to break a major international weapons ring and he couldn't keep his head in the game. He'd only had contact with Fi twice in the entire eight months. Calls placed to Sam and his mother had confirmed his worst suspicions and worries. Fiona had closed herself off from most of her family and friends. Sam was the only one able to maintain contact, by feigning the need for assistance with Elsa's care. Michael felt terrible troubling his friend with their problems, especially since Elsa was now terminal, but he couldn't seem to devise any other way to keep tabs on his wife. Sam shrugged off all Michael's apologies, due to his own concern for Fiona's well being. And from that point on, everything else in Michael's life spiraled out of control.

'_***'**_

Michael shook away the jarring cobwebs, which had taken over his mind. The ice pack on his right shoulder was long since thawed and warmed. He rotated his arm trying to relax the taut muscles, before the pain of movement screamed back. Trips down memory lane tended to leave him tense and unsettled. He reached into his bottom desk drawer retrieving a dog-eared file. Opening the front flap, he read over the single-spaced first paragraph of the document printed on official 8-1/2 X 11 government paper:

_The intensive uncertainty and pressures surrounding Agent Westen's personal life directly lead to his inability to properly gather and interpret facts and data garnered from his own procured source. Failure of Agent Westen to follow agency hierarchy and protocol placed both his coworkers and himself at lethal risk, and directly jeopardized the successful completion of a two-year covert operation._

The words in the after-action report didn't do justice to the frightening sequence of events, which transpired on that hot August day in a New York City warehouse. He'd failed to properly vet the allegiance of his contact. The team had been caught unaware, as gunfire rang out from a rival gang of weapons dealers. Thankfully, he'd been the only one seriously injured. He'd survived, but the mission had nearly been lost. As it was, it was going to take his replacement months to regain the necessary trust of the weapons cartel. He had been reprimanded and placed on desk duty pending further investigation. His handler had been fired for his lack of supervision in failing to recognize Michael's precarious emotional state, as well as, for leaking Fiona information.

"Fiii," his voice echoed within the confines of the small windowless office, she had been the party most harmed by his lack of self-assessment and control. He could still see the pain in her eyes as he threw her out of his hospital room, shouting obscenities and innuendoes. She understood his need to preserve his cover and apologized for her role in the disaster, but her eyes still betrayed her shattered emotions. And par for their course of late, he'd compounded their misery by lying all blame for his failures at her feet. To that current day, she still had no idea of his tenuous status with the agency. His guilt had become so unbearable, he couldn't stand to gaze at her sad countenance or broken eyes anymore. He'd jumped at the chance to transfer to London, knowing she'd be unable to follow him there. He had prayed every night for the last month, asking God to grant him more time and with it, the healing of their relationship. He remembered telling her once, _if she really cared about him, she should damn well want what he wanted for himself._ She'd given him her full support just as he demanded. He had managed to find his way back to the agency, to the "life he wanted for himself," but just what had that gotten him or them and most especially her? She'd lost her country, her relatives, her freedom, her livelihood and a chance at a family. Not even remotely a fair trade in his jaded estimation.

He tossed the action report file aside and lifted the divorce papers off the desk. Flipping to the last page, he recognized the scrolling details of her cursive signature. Briskly rubbing the fingers of his left hand across his forehead in a vain attempt to quell the burgeoning headache, he shuffled through the top desk drawer in search of a pen. Writing implement poised with tip to paper, he just couldn't make himself sign his name to a document declaring the end to all their dreams. Frustration then took hold, as he sought another way to reach her, to repair their life. He refused to give up on the woman he had loved for most all of his adulthood. Throwing the pen across the room, he shoved the papers aside, toppling the entire contents of his desktop onto the floor. As paperwork and correspondence rained down upon him, he reached futilely to collect the mess. It was then he noticed a folded manila envelope leaning against the far wall, separate from the rest. He wheeled his chair to the spot and retrieved the envelope, immediately noting Fiona's unique script. He stared at the word written in big letter across the front. Is that what she thought? He derided himself for remaining silent. All his attempts to hide his guilt only led her to believe he didn't care at all.

"Apathy," he spoke the word out loud. Apathy? She couldn't be more wrong!

He checked his watch realizing it was almost noon. He'd spent nearly two hours lost in his trip down memory lane. Calculating the time difference, he figured Fi was probably up. Pulling the cell phone from his pocket, he quickly hit number 1 on the speed dial. Their home phone began to ring, but quickly went to voicemail. Disconnecting the line, he hit number 2 for her cell, receiving the same response.

"Damn," he mumbled under his breath. He didn't know if she was preoccupied or screening her calls. He tossed the cell onto his desk and headed out to the general office, in search of more coffee. He nearly collided with his assistant, as he exited his door. Another expletive escaped his lips. Clearly his agitation was getting the best of him. He quietly apologized for his outburst and stepped aside, allowing her to enter his office with yet another stack of paperwork. He rolled his eyes wishing the day would just end. As he arrived in the kitchenette and reached for the coffee pot, his hand began to shake. He realized his current stress level was already heightened due to his urgent need to reach Fi and opted for bottled water, instead of more caffeine.

As he dropped back into his chair, he took note of the most recent updates by Interpol to their "Wanted Persons" list sitting atop his ever-growing pile of papers. He lifted the stack of posters and slowly thumbed through the pictures of the usual suspects. As he reached the bottom page, he took note of a new name and face. The criminal had escaped confinement just three days prior. He jumped to his feet spilling the posters onto the floor. Reaching for his phone, he frantically dialed the first two numbers of his call list in rapid succession. Fingers began tearing at his hair, as he tried again and again with no answer. The sting of tears burned in his eyes, as fear etched deep on his face. He threw the cell on his desktop, and dropping his face into his hands, he screamed one name at the top of his voice.

"Fi!"

'_*****'**_

_To be continued…_

_**'**********'**  
_

* * *

_**AN:**__ I know I've written Michael as being very reserved in his outward demonstration of emotions. With his childhood history of abuse, I think that portrayal is accurate. He learned from a very young age to keep his emotions to himself, and that lesson would have been reinforced in the military, and most especially the CIA. I have family members who came from abusive homes. The one unique feature I find common to them is the __**internal "need" or "drive"**__ to be reserved in both their verbal and physical emotional displays. That's not to say they can't be expressive, but often times, it takes someone else making the first move, before they feel comfortable enough to reciprocate in like kind. I'm not sure if it's due to a fear of rejection, because rejection was something they certainly experienced during their childhood. With my family members, for example, I make sure I ALWAYS say, "I love you," when we end a phone conversation. They will usually reply in like kind, but there is often a surprised delay in their response, ("Ohhh…I love you too!) I have no doubt they are __**VERY SINCERE**__ in their love, so that isn't the issue. In their childhood, they were brought up rarely __**hearing**__ or __**saying**__ those words, so those important 3 words (I LOVE YOU) are rarely the first things off their tongue. They certainly mean them when they say them…their actions demonstrate that! But it is still hard for them to __**say**__ "I love you," hence my desire to end our calls in that fashion. I think everyone should hear those special words from their loved ones. We never know when it might be our last chance. I don't want to miss my last chance to express my love, nor do I want those close to me to ever regret missing out on their chance to do the same._


	4. Chapter 3

_**AN:**__ Thanks again to all of you who reviewed and/or sent private messages. I really appreciate your support for this story. Your questions, concerns and praise spur me on in the writing and telling of my tale. Also you will notice this chapter does not start with the usual continuation of my Gaelic legend. For those who are enjoying this bit of folklore, don't worry it will be back scattered here and there throughout the remainder of this story._

**_'**********'_**

* * *

**Part 3**

_Apathy is the glove into which evil slips its hand. – Bodie Thoene_

'_*****'**_

* * *

Monday  
October 23, 2017  
The CIA Offices  
American Embassy  
24 Grosvenor Square  
London, England

"Fi!"

His assistant burst into his office without so much as an announcement or a knock. She found Michael sitting at his desk, shoulders slumped and clutching a cell phone. He didn't look up to acknowledge her presence, even when she cleared her voice to gain his attention. He remained frozen just staring down at the tiny screen on his phone.

She tried again, "Mr. Westen?"

He glanced at the door, staring through her, but not really seeing. His eyes were wide with fear, his fingers white from their tight grip on the phone. He offered no verbal or physical response, simply staring off into space.

"Mr. Westen?" She tried again, "Is something wrong, sir?"

His eyes drifted toward her, momentarily confused, before focusing on the task at hand. He shook his head to clear his mind, before answering, "What?"

"I asked if something was wrong. I heard you call out from my desk."

He gathered the posters at his feet, shuffling them until he found the right one. He held out the poster to her, "Uh, yes, could you, um…could you get the ah…the Interpol officer assigned to this case? I, um…I really need to...uh, speak with him as soon as…as soon as possible."

She took one tentative step forward reaching for the poster then quickly retreated to the threshold of his office door. Standing just outside, she took a moment to study him. He was new to the London office and she didn't know him very well. He'd been abrupt and tense since his arrival about three and half weeks before, the fuse on his anger always simmering just below the surface. She'd heard some rumors circulating among the office staff, when they gathered at the coffee pot or chitchatted over the latest gossip at lunch. There was something about a botched mission with resultant injuries. He usually came in a little late due to his medical appointments in the morning. He was extremely quiet, except for the niceties required for the job, and even those weren't always pleasant encounters. She knew he worked a lot, putting in long hours and staying late into the evening. She'd noticed his wedding band when he arrived, but unlike the other officials at the embassy, there were no photos or personal memorabilia displayed anywhere about his office. In the near month of his presence, there were no phone calls of a personal nature going out or coming in. She wondered what kind of wife tolerated such a self-absorbed, workaholic husband. Sure, she knew other administrators and officials were equally work obsessed, but they at least made the pretense of keeping up the appearance of a happy home life. She watched as he began furiously pushing the buttons on his phone again, only to sigh in frustration and toss it aside. He looked up to find her staring at him and glared back at the intrusion into his privacy.

"Are you sure you're all right?" She asked, rocking back and forth on the balls her feet, uncomfortable at being caught in her scrutiny. "I mean you look…."

Briskly wiping a hand over his face to calm his emotions, he barked, "Yes, Cynthia, I'm fine! Now, if you would please get that Interpol officer on the line…it's extremely important!"

She ran for her desk and immediately placed the call. Looking down at the poster, she browsed through the details on the criminal in question, noting his name, country of origin and numerous crimes. As she listened to the music while waiting on hold, she wondered about the nature of the criminal's link to her boss. At that moment, a deep voice echoed over the phone line. She offered the usual office salutations and immediately transferred the call to Michael's office.

"Hello Mr. Neville, this is Michael West…."

I'm sorry, but Mr. Neville is in a meeting at the moment. I'm Marty Drummond, one of Mr. Neville's associates, may I be of assistance."

"Ah yes, Mr. Drummond…."

"Marty, please."

"All right, Marty. As I was saying, my name is Michael Westen. I'm with the American Embassy here in London. I was hoping to trouble Mr. Neville for some information about an individual whom Interpol is currently tracking." Michael reached for a pen and pad of paper, shoving the other piles of paperwork to the side of his desk.

"I'm sorry, who is this?"

"Michael Westen, I'm with the agency here in London…."

"Oh, of course, who is it that your interested in, Mr. Westen?"

"Call me, Michael. I was browsing through your most recent posters and noticed a new face today. I was wondering if you could give me an update in regards to that individual?"

"Do you have the Interpol number for this fugitive?"

"Of course, it's ah…could you hold a second, my assistant has that particular poster." Michael hurried around the desk and retrieved the poster, before reaching for the phone again. "I'm sorry about that…ah Marty, correct?"

"Yes that's right."

"Okay, the number is 416050. It looks as if he escaped on Friday, October 19th," Michael quickly scribbled those details onto the pad.

"Ah yes, Michael, let me just pull up that file in the system." The clicking of computer keys and occasional beeps could be heard in the background. "Let's see that was number 416050, correct?"

"Yes," Michael sighed in frustration wanting to hurry the phone conversation along.

"Ah yes, escaped from Whitemoor Prison in Cambridgeshire on Friday. Looks like he escaped from the infirmary sometime early Friday morning. He was noted to be present by the staff at 03:00 and 05:00, but the bedside check during nursing turnover at 07:00 revealed the wrong prisoner in the infirmary bed. In retrospect, infirmary staff did a head count at 05:00 without verifying actual ID bracelets or photos. Due to that deficiency in protocol, suspected time of escape is placed somewhere between 03:00 and 07:00 on Friday, October 19th."

Michael jotted down the additional details, "I take it this individual is still at large?"

"Yes, that would seem to be correct. It appears we've had no sightings or apprehensions since the initial escape."

Michael scrubbed at his forehead to remain calm, "How does a high-risk prisoner just escape from a maximum security prison like Whitemoor."

"Well," a loud disgusted grunt was heard over the line, "…it appears he had inside help. There were two prison guards and an infirmary assistant missing after the prison escape was detected. There's no further information in the record, but Colin…ah, Mr. Neville is in a briefing regarding this particular case at this very moment. I can have him call you when he's free."

Michael glanced at his watch, it seemed like the second hand was flying by and with it his patience, "Um, okay…well, do you know when the briefing should be completed?"

"Sorry, couldn't begin to predict. You know how briefings go, they can last 3 hours or be done in 10 minutes." Agent Drummond chuckled at his own form of a joke.

Michael shook his head in frustration, even before he replied, "If you could please have him call me the minute he's available. This is really important!"

"What's this case to you, anyway?"

"Ah," Michael sought for a plausible explanation, "…some of my colleagues were involved in the take down. I'm just…you know, watching out for them." Michael gave the agent his cell number and finished with the usual thanks and goodbye.

Hanging up his office phone, he tried again to reach Fi at both numbers, but only got the same request to leave a voicemail. He left a short message to call as soon as she was free. He then sent a text with the exact same message. His mind drifted off to thoughts of Sean, Fiona's brother, but he didn't have Sean's current point of contact with him there in London. He figured he could call Fi's parents, but he didn't want to worry them without more proof of risk.

"Damn!" He shouted into the room, pacing back and forth, getting more and more agitated as each minute ticked by. He thought about calling Sam, but hated to worry him unnecessarily. He picked up his phone to call Fi again, but realized his last call was only minutes prior. Needing to do something, he sat down at his desk and began searching the computer for flights from London to Miami. The last flight out of London, that would arrive Miami that same day, left in less than 3 hours. He checked on seating and found the flight was nearly full. Acting on impulse, he booked a seat on the flight. At least it was something he could accomplish, even if it was unnecessary in the end.

Checking his watch again, he found another 15 minutes had passed, a full 20 since speaking with Drummond. He made a rash decision and began gathering his things. He figured it was a bit harder to ignore someone in person, especially when that person was pacing outside your office door. If a physical presence was what it took, then he and Colin Neville were about to have a face-to-face. Grabbing his satchel and emptying its content onto his already over-burdened desk, he reached for the Interpol poster, office supplies and his portable computer, loading them all into the bag. He then retrieved an overnight case, which he always kept packed for emergencies, from the corner behind the desk. Once a spy, always a spy, he reasoned, as he headed out his office door with gear in tow.

He stopped at his assistant's desk just long enough to inform her, "Cynthia, I'm grabbing a taxi and heading over to the Interpol office. I'll probably be out for the day."

He turned to exit the area then pivoted back, "Actually, I might well be gone for several days, if not indefinitely. If anyone is looking for me, please patch them through to my cell. I've already left that number for Agent Neville, but if he should call back here…put him through, as well."

And with those few words of instruction, his assistant watched him jog out the door. Gone for days, she wrinkled her brow in confusion and pulled up his schedule on her computer screen. He was booked for a meeting that afternoon with his boss and another for breakfast tomorrow. He couldn't just take off on a whim, leaving her to calm the tempest. She wandered for the umpteenth time in the last few weeks just how long Agent Westen would remain in London.

'_***'**_

* * *

Michael caught a taxi out front of the Embassy, figuring every second saved was to his advantage. The quick 15-minute drive would give him a chance to call Fi again. When he got the same response as the 20 times before, he decided it was time to call in reinforcements. He dialed a familiar number and listened to it ring.

"Good morning, Axe residence…Sam speaking," Sam chuckled to himself, before continuing on, "…hey, what's up, Mikey? I haven't heard from you in a couple of weeks, and your wife isn't too chatty either!"

"Sam, I don't have time to explain all our problems right now," Michael breathed out on a weary sigh, which echoed all the way to Miami.

"Uh-oh, that doesn't sound encouraging," was Sam's sympathetic reply.

"No, probably not, but…well, never mind about all that right now." Michael pushed ahead in his conversation, "Look have you talked to Fi this morning?"

"Noooo," Sam shook his head for emphasis, "…she's not scheduled to spend the day with Elsa until tomorrow. Lose your wife again, Mikey?"

"Saaam," Michael swallowed back the crackle in is voice, "…when was the last time you did talk to her?"

Sam could clearly hear the emotion in his friend's voice, "Hey, you okay, buddy?"

"Not really," Michael tried to reel the conversation back in to his original intent. "Please, Sam, when was the last time you talked with Fi?"

"Mmmm, Thursday, I guess…she spent the morning with Elsa, while I ran some errands." Sam paused a moment, "Hey Mike, what's this really about?"

Michael released a loud anxious breath, "I don't want to worry you unnecessarily, but I need to know Fi is safe. Can you run over to the house and take a look around?"

"Wow, Mike, this is really bad timing. The hospice nurse just called to say she's running late. I don't expect her for another couple of hours, and there's no one else to stay with Elsa."

"Damn it," Michael cursed not so quietly under his breath, "…I really need someone to check the house!"

"Well, what about your mom?"

"No…no way, I don't want her anywhere near the house, just in case."

"Just in case what," Sam quizzed, an uneasy feeling settling into the pit of his stomach. "Come on, Mike, what the hell is going on?"

"Um, I just got a look at the most recent Interpol posters, and it seems an old buddy of ours has escaped from a prison here in England…Whitemoor to be exact." Michael waited for that little tidbit of news to sink in and hit its mark.

"Whewww," Sam whistled back. "You're not saying who I think you're saying?"

"Yeah, that's the one," Michael's voice fell in defeat, "…he escaped with some inside help on Friday morning and has not be seen since…."

"You don't think he headed to Miami, do you? I mean why not go to…."

"I don't know!" Michael barked back in agitation and then apologized, "Sorry, I'm just worried about Fi. I'm headed to Interpol to speak with the assigned officer right now. He's been tied up with a briefing about the case. Hopefully, he'll tell me the guy is back behind bars, but in the meantime…."

"Someone needs to check on Fi," Sam quickly replied. "You got it, buddy. I'll see if someone from the office can sit with Elsa and get back to you."

"Gotta go, taxi just pulled up outside Interpol," Michael grabbed his gear from the backseat and threw some cash at the driver. "Hey Sam!"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for your help!" Michael rushed out in a single breath, as he ran up the step to Interpol.

"Anytime, Mike…you know that! Anytime!" Sam disconnected the link, leaving Michael listening to several beeps followed by dead silence.

'_***'**_

* * *

London Interpol Headquarters  
44 Featherstone Street  
London, England

Once inside the building, he progressed through the security checkpoint and was directed to the information desk. The receptionist initially declined his request for Colin Neville's number, until he flashed his CIA credentials. He rode the elevator to the third floor and wandered his way through a maze of centrally placed desks to arrive at Neville's office on the far side of the building. Glancing into the agent's doorway, he saw four men sitting around a single desk. They all had their heads bowed, as they listened to a voice emanating from a centrally placed speakerphone. The conversation was much too soft for him to catch more than a few words here or there. He was so engrossed trying to capture any portion of the private conversation that he failed to hear a stocky gentleman approach him from behind.

"May I help you?" The gruff voice startled Michael, causing him to flinch away.

"I'm sorry what?" Michael tried to cover for his previous eavesdropping, "I was just…I was trying…." He fell quiet when the larger man pegged him with a withering stare.

"I asked, if I could help you?"

"Um, yes, I was looking for Colin Neville's office," Michael pulled his agency ID from his suit coat pocket and flipped it face-side up toward the other gentleman.

"Oh, of course," the teddy bear of a man smiled brightly, "…I spoke to you earlier, Mr. Westen."

Michael nodded his head and flashed his own smile, "Ah, you must be Marty Drummond…and it's Michael by the way."

"I thought you were going to wait for our call," the larger man motioned for Michael to follow him toward the coffee machine located in an adjacent alcove, "…can I get you a cup of coffee or tea?"

"Ah, no," Michael grimaced, "…had enough caffeine for today, I think, but I'll take some bottled water, if you've got it."

"Sure thing," Drummond reached into a small under cabinet refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of generic-brand water and handed it to Michael.

"Thanks," Michael tipped the bottle toward the other man.

"So, what brings you by?" Drummond frowned in question, "Did Colin get back to you already? 'Cuz, I could've sworn he's been stuck in his office with the briefing since noon."

Michael tried his most disarming smile, "No, haven't heard from him yet, but I hoped if I came by…ah, it might speed things along."

"Well, you're welcome to wait, just grab one of the seats outside his office." Marty nodded to the side, before taking a big swig of very hot coffee. He immediately grimaced in pain as the burning liquid hit his tongue. Pointing toward Neville's office, he cautiously lisped a reply," Can'th thell ya how long, he'll be thied up."

Michael offered the cool bottle of water to the other officer with an amused smile, but Drummond waved him off. Michael headed back to Neville's office, arriving just in time to see a tall, thin man behind the desk click off the speakerphone. The other folks in the room stood up, shaking hands with one another. Two of the gentlemen headed off, while one stayed behind to speak with the tall agent. Michael thought he could overhear them discussing what sounded like rugby scores and decided he'd waited long enough. He loudly dropped his gear into an adjacent chair then rapped his knuckles sharply on the door.

Both gentlemen looked up in surprise, which Michael took as his cue to flash an apologetic smile, "Agent Neville?"

"Yes," the taller of the two replied.

"Hello, I'm Michael Westen and I've been trying to reach you."

Neville eyed him with uncertainty, as the other man gathered his paperwork to leave. Michael stepped aside, allowing him to pass, then grabbed his satchel and stepped further into Colin Neville's office.

Extending a hand in greeting, Michael continued on, "I spoke with your associate, Marty Drummond, about an hour ago. He was going to have you call me, as soon as your briefing was through. I thought it might be quicker to just grab a taxi at the Embassy and come talk in person."

"You're with the American Embassy?" Neville considered him with a healthy bit of skepticism.

"Uh, yes," Michael flashed his ID, "…sorry, I'm with the CIA."

Colin nodded his head in welcome, "Ah, okay…I haven't had a chance to speak with Marty yet. What can I do for you, Mr. Westen?"

"Michael, please," he reached into his briefcase and withdrew the Interpol poster, "…I'm wanting some information on this fugitive."

Neville took the poster, studying it, before handing it back, "What is it you need to know?"

"Well, I wondered where you are with the case?"

"You have a particular interest in that fellow?" The Interpol agent pointed toward the poster clutched in Michael's hand.

"Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do. As I told Agent Drummond earlier, some of my associates helped take him down. I'm just looking out for their safety…you know, trying to keep them informed and in the loop, so to speak."

Neville pointed to a chair opposite his desk, before returning to his own. He picked up a file lying closed on his desktop and began leafing through the top several pages. "I ah…I don't see your name anywhere in this file, Mr. Westen."

"Michael," he corrected again, "…no, I was not specifically named at the time. But I believe if you look further, you'll see he was arrested in the waters off the United States."

"Okay," Colin Neville stared straight ahead at Michael, waiting for him to continue on.

"Look, Mr. Neville," Michael tried to keep the edge out of his voice, "…I was involved in the undercover operation, which directly resulted in his capture, trial and incarceration. The fugitive was apprehended in the coastal waters of Miami, right? He had a signature explosive device with him at the time, tying him to multiple bombings throughout Western Europe. He was also charged with the death of Tom Strickler in Miami. After capture the United States waved its right to trial, in favor of extradition to London…where he could be tried on the more substantial charges related to his culpability in those lethal terrorist bombings.

Neville finally smiled at Michael, "It's Colin…and what can I tell you about Thomas O'Neill that you don't already know, Michael?"

"Uh, how about his whereabouts after his escape from Whitemoor Prison on Friday?"

"Look Michael, I appreciate your concern for your colleagues, but that information is privileged at this time. And as far as I can see, the CIA doesn't have a current role in O'Neill's capture here in the U.K., or any where in Europe for that matter."

Michael's headache rushed back, throbbing in full force, and he briskly rubbed his temple to calm the pain. "Colin, I understand the jurisdictional issues between our two countries, while the fugitive remains in Europe. The problem still remains that O'Neill has ties to the U.S. One of my female associates, who was directly involved in O'Neill's apprehension, spent a particularly brutal time in his captivity before being rescued. I have reason to believe O'Neill might come gunning for her in a vengeful attempt to seek retribution for his capture."

"This associate have a name?"

"Undercover, can't say…but trust me, if O'Neill gets ahold of her again, there won't be enough pieces left to identify her body." Michael confidently stared down the Interpol agent trying to convey the seriousness of the situation.

"All right," Neville finally relented, "…but just so you can relate the details to the concerned parties in Miami. No detention or arrest attempts by you here in the UK. And I don't want you getting into the middle of our investigation, either."

"Of course," Michael nodded his assent. His mind pondering the absurdity of limits and boundaries, between countries, when terrorists like O'Neill were on the loose.

Neville withdrew some paperwork from the file on his desk, "It appears O'Neill had inside help with his escape. There was a possible 4-hour window of time during which the escape occurred early Friday morning. Given his prolonged head start, it's not surprising that an extensive search of Whitemoor Prison and its surrounding premises turned up no evidence of O'Neill or his three accomplices. The next area of pursuit included all transportation hubs into and out of the immediate area. All airports, train and bus terminals within a 50-kilometer radius of Cambridgeshire and Cambridge proper were thoroughly checked and cleared. The first break in the case came at a vehicle checkpoint outside Colchester, where we were able to apprehend the infirmary assistant. It took 3-hours of intensive questioning, but he finally gave up the escape plan for O'Neill and the two prison guards through Maldon Harbour en route to Ireland.

"So they were headed to Ireland, not the U.S?" Michael exhaled an audible sigh of relief and visibly relaxed in his chair.

Neville shook his head, "Can't exactly confirm that."

"What?" Michael whole demeanor immediately returned to full alert.

Pausing a moment to swallow from a mug of lukewarm coffee, Neville pulled out a map from O'Neill's Interpol file. "We immediately issued alerts to all harbor security and personnel, along with notifying local businesses and private boating clubs along the potential escape route," the agent pointed out the expansiveness of the waterway requiring coverage. "To our surprise, we received a fairly prompt reply from the captain of a cargo ship en route to Cork. Seems they had caught several stowaways on board after leaving the dock, at least one of which fit the description of the prison guard. Interpol agents were able to apprehend the stowaways, as soon as the freighter docked in Cork. Unfortunately, only one of them was our man, the other stowaways were simply petty thieves. The agents interrogated the guard for 12 hours. Initially, he only gave up the information about the planning and execution of the prison break…but in the end, he told authorities, O'Neill and the other guard were smuggled onto a Coyne Airlines flight departing out of the Anglia Cargo Terminal."

Michael stared at Neville with focused determination, taking in every detail of information, before offering, "Well that should be easy enough to track. It took them, what…7 to 8 hours to make it from Whitemoor to Colchester? That should've put them at the airport around say 10 a.m. to noon on Friday. How many Coyne Air flights originated out of the Anglia terminal over say the next 12 hours?"

Neville flashed Michael a sickly grin, "Half a dozen or so."

"Whoosh," Michael released an exasperated whistle of air, "…and should I ask where they were bound?"

"All over the place," Neville pointed to the map again, "…Coyne Air flies to the Middle East, the Baltic States, Canada and the U.S."

Michael pinched the bridge of his nose, "Any of the possible flights headed to North America?"

Neville wearily nodded his head again, "One went to Canada, the other to the east coast of the U.S." As Michael started to interrupt, the agent held up a hand then continued on, "The flight to the U.S. made stops in Boston, New York, D.C and Miami."

Michael felt his earlier fear surge and threaten to engulf him. Swallowing back the burning acid in his throat, he asked the only obvious question, "Did anyone see O'Neill on any of the flights?"

"No," Neville shook his head in frustration, "…we've had Interpol, the FBI and CIA, as well as, all local authorities checking ports of entry throughout the U.S., Canada and the Middle East. No one interviewed to date has claimed to see or had interactions with either O'Neill or the missing prison guard."

"Ooohhh," Michael's response, delivered in a single long breath, came out as if someone had punched him in the chest.

"Yeah, oh," the Interpol agent leaned his forehead heavily into his left palm and glanced at Michael through spread fingers. "I'm sorry I don't have better news, but it seems O'Neill has disappeared from sight in the last 48 hours. He could be anywhere in the world and we'd never know. Until the bastard shows his next hand, I'm afraid we're all sitting ducks."

"Some more than others," Michael struggled with the emotion in his voice.

"I take it this female _'colleague',_" Neville quirked his fingers to form quotation marks for added emphasis, "…means something special to you?"

"Yeaaahhh," Michael voice cracked, as his reply came out throaty and rasp. He cleared his throat and tried again, "Yes, she's someone very special to me." He's eyes fell to his wedding band, which he twirled around his ring finger with his thumb.

"I'm really sorry to hear that," Colin whispered in a hushed voice, "…O'Neill is one sick bastard!" He continued to study Michael, who was having a difficult time keeping eye contact. He appeared to be lost in his own little world. "Hey, are you going to be okay?"

"Uh?" Michael glanced back up at the Interpol agent, as his question startled him from his morose musings. "Ah, yeah…I ah…I have a 3 p.m. flight out of a…um, Heathrow to Miami." He diverted his face from Neville's view, when the scrutiny became more than he could bear. "Thought it best to head home…to, you know…be close just…just in case. I, ah…I'm sure things will be…will be fine."

Michael knew he was hanging on by a thread and needed to get out that office, as soon as possible. He grabbed his notes and Interpol poster, shoving them into his satchel. Hoisting the leather bag onto his left shoulder, he extended his hand to Neville, "Thanks for all your help, Colin. I really appreciate your time and honesty in this matter."

"No problem," Colin stood up to walk the CIA agent to the door. "Hey, if I can be of any further help, feel free to call." Michael nodded his head and took a few steps toward the door.

"Michael," Colin called him back, "…do I have your cell number, just in case I hear anymore news?"

"Yeah," Michael's voice quivered under the strain of his tentative emotional control, "…I uh…I gave it to Drummond earlier."

"Good luck," Neville clamped his hand on Michael's shoulder just as he was exiting the office door, "…don't let the bastard take her away from you!"

Michael stood to his full height and answered over his shoulder, "He won't, if I have anything to say about it!"

And with that Michael headed back through the maze of desks and walked straight into a waiting elevator. He flagged down a taxi outside the London Interpol building. Tossing his gear into the cab, he slide in the back seat, directing the driver to take him to Heathrow for a British Airlines international flight out of terminal 5. As he settled in for the drive, he checked his cell for messages from Fiona. Seeing none, he tried both home and cell again with similar results. His sense of fear was overwhelming, weighting him down in the seat. He hadn't heard a word from Sam, so he tried his cell again.

"Sam here," he answered on the first ring, "…what'd you find out from Interpol, Mike?"

"Nothing good, I'm afraid," Michael pulled the phone from his ear to urge the driver to take a detour, around a roadblock up ahead. "Sorry Sam, traffic is a mess and I'm trying to catch the last flight out of Heathrow that will land me in Miami tonight."

"You're coming here?" Sam asked, "How'd you manage that? I thought the higher ups were riding your six…."

"I don't care anymore," Michael cut Sam off, "…Fi is more important than my damn job at the agency."

"Wow brother, when did that happen?"

"What are you talking about?" Michael rebuffed the question with more than a little bit of ire in his voice. "Fi's always been more important…well, ever since those first few years after I got burned!"

"Hmmm, have you ever told that to her?" Sam tried to pacify his buddy, but still nudged him along.

"Well, maybe not in those exact words?" Michael backpedalled a little from his previous protest.

"In any words?" Sam knew he was treading on thin ice.

"Obviously not," Michael's voice took on a melancholy tone, "…otherwise, she wouldn't have served me with divorce papers today."

"Divorce?"

"Yeah divorce," Michael words came out stilted and slow.

"Wheww," Sam whistled back. "Sorry buddy, can't say I saw that one coming…Fiona never said a thing. Although…."

"I know…I know," Michael's defensively mumbled into the phone, "…that's one of the reasons I need to find her. I have to explain…make her understand…."

"Understand what?"

"THAT I STILL LOVE HER, DAMN IT!" Michael's declaration erupted like thunder and lighting across a late July sky.

"Well, I for one am glad to hear that," Sam's voice raised an octave, as he became more upbeat.

"What?" Michael's confusion came through in his voice.

"That you still love her…and that you're willing to put her first."

"I always did," Michael argued back like a petulant child, "…I mean, I may not have been the best at communicating…."

"Wow, that's the understatement of the century!" Sam blurted out then hurried on, before Michael could get peeved. "Don't get me wrong, Mikey. I know how much Fiona means to you. My point is, I don't think Fi knows how much she means to you! She's been in a bad place for a while now. The fact that she's the one willing to call it quits, says a lot. That's like…you know…monumental!"

"I know, Sam…I know," Michael rubbed his temple, willing his headache to go away. "Look, all I want is a chance to make her understand all the things I couldn't say, but first…I have to find her!"

"Okay, so what did the guy at Interpol say?"

"O'Neill is off the grid and has been for the last 48 hours."

"Not good," Sam moaned, before yelling something away from the phone. "Hang on, Mike…the hospice nurse just arrived."

Michael spent the next few minutes watching traffic whiz past his side window. The taxi driver suddenly hit the brakes, sending Michael careening forward and jamming his right shoulder into the front seat, before the cab accelerated again around an accident in the middle of the intersection. Michael rubbed his shoulder, dying for some Advil and a pack of ice. His eyes caught the sign announcing the exit for Heathrow 2 kilometers ahead. Glancing at his watch, he sighed in relief, realizing he would make the flight with 30 minutes to spare. Just at that moment, Sam came back on the line.

"Hey, sorry 'bout that, Mike." Sam's breath was noticeably labored, as he spoke into the phone. "The hospice nurse is finally here, so I can head on over to your place. I couldn't find anyone from the office to stay with Elsa earlier."

"What?" Sam's voice caught Michael unaware, as he pondered O'Neill's escape and potential for harm.

"I said, I'm heading over to your house now. I couldn't leave earlier," Sam repeated. "So, do we have any idea where O'Neill was headed?"

"Several possibilities, actually. O'Neill and a guard jumped on a cargo plane departing out of the UK. The carrier delivers all over the globe. Best guess, puts him somewhere between Canada, the U.S. and the Middle East."

"Nothing like narrowing it down," Sam grumbled snidely. His key fob beeped, as he unlocked his car door.

"Yeah, Interpol and local authorities have questioned all personnel aboard the flights, but no one remembers seeing O'Neill." Michael paused for a moment. "Sam?"

"Yeah Mickey?"

Michael's voice softened in obvious distress, "I got a bad feeling about this…the U.S. flight made stops in Boston, New York, D.C and…Miami."

"Oh crap…I'm on my way right now!" Sam inhaled a deep breath, as the car tires screeched in protest, "Hang in there, buddy. I'll call you as soon as I get to your house."

"Thanks Sam," Michael struggled to control his emotion, "…my ah…my flight leaves…in ah, 20 to 30 minutes."

"You'll hear from me before then…promise!"

"Bye Sam," Michael disconnected the call and shoved the cell phone into his lapel pocket, as the cab driver pulled up to the curb at the terminal. Michael handed him the fare along with a good tip for expediting their travel time, then grabbed his gear and headed inside.

Once checked in, he stopped at the first newsstand to purchase some Advil, bottled water and a newspaper. Any newspaper would do, it didn't matter the edition or size. A well-versed member of the frequent traveler's club, he knew an opened newspaper was the best deterrent from the endless chatter of a noisy seatmate. He had just swallowed two Advil, when his cell chirped from his front pocket. Thinking it might be Sam; Michael quickly answered the call.

"Hello," Michael held his breath expecting a dire report.

"Mr. Westen, this is Cynthia from the office…."

"Cynthia, did Colin Neville call back?" Michael prayed they'd found O'Neill stashed in some two bit Arabian hellhole.

"Ah, no sir," she sounded nervous to his ears, "…um, could you please hold for Assistant Deputy Director Morrow?"

"But…." He was immediately cut off by elevator music. Wondering what was going on at the Embassy, he sought out a private corner of the terminal in which to talk.

"Michael?" Director Marrow came on the line, "I was under the impression we had a meeting today to discuss the case reviews I gave you."

"Yes sir," Michael rolled his eyes heavenward, "…we did, sir…but something important has come up. I'll most likely be out of town for the next several days."

Michael heard the Director's irritated sigh, "I don't recall approving any PTO time for you. Since you just arrived here in London less than a month ago, I think it's a bit premature to be cutting out for personal time, don't you? Especially considering how your last assignment ended, I doubt it's wise to press your luck with the Agency!"

"I'm sorry, sir, but this important…."

"Michael, I believe I just made myself very clear," the Director's words were abrupt and to the point, leaving little doubt as to his intentions.

"I understand, sir…but I need to return home to Miami," Michael tried once again to plead his case.

Morrow angrily took the call off speaker and lifted the handset to his ear. "Mr. Westen, in light of your previous troubles related to family issues…I believe Director Woodrow made it quite clear the Agency would not tolerate anymore shenanigans. I suggest you forget about home and head back to the office, immediately. I'll reschedule our meeting for 16:00.

"NO…SIR!" Michael firmly declined, "My wife is missing and potentially in harm's way…I intend to fly home to insure her safety!"

"Mr. Westen…"

"NO! I have spent 30 years in loyal service to my country, sir! I have put my interests and my family's interest behind the wishes of the Agency, time and again. If Deputy Director Woodrow isn't happy with my performance, then he knows how to reach me! As of this moment, I am boarding a plane to Miami to assure my wife remains alive! Good afternoon, sir!"

Michael hung up the phone feeling freer than he had in years. He heard them announce the boarding call for his flight and double-timed it down the terminal to his gate. As he was about to hand off his boarding pass, he phone chirped back to life. He thought about disregarding the call, in case Morrow was calling back, but pulled it from his pocket anyway. Glancing at the caller ID, he visibly relaxed.

"Sam!"

"Hey Mike, I just got here. The house is locked up tight as a drum. I don't see any broken windows or other signs of forced entry. I checked the garage and Fiona's car is missing. I'm not sure if she's gone or has it parked elsewhere, as your garage door opener is still on the blink."

"Damn it," Michael cursed under his breath, "…I was supposed to fix that before I left for London."

"Yeah, I've heard all about it," Sam started to elaborate, but thought better of it, "…ah, never mind."

"So, there's no sign of her anywhere?"

"Nope," Sam shrugged his shoulders, "…like I said, no car, no mess or signs of a struggle. I picked up your mail, looks like about a day's worth or a little more." Michael heard a seal give way, as a door opened, "Fridge is still full, so I doubt she's gone on a long vacation. Besides, she's supposed to spend the day with Elsa tomorrow."

"I don't understand," Michael groaned out in weary frustration.

"Don't know what to tell you, brother. Maybe she went away for the weekend."

"Maybe? Did you try to call her on her cell?"

"Sheesh," Sam burst out, "…I've been trying all morning, ever since you called me!"

"I don't like it, Sam…even if I'm not her favorite person right now, why wouldn't she talk to you? She knows you wouldn't keep calling her, unless it was important, especially now that Elsa's…." Michael let the word hang out in the air.

"I know," Sam's previous adrenaline rush plummeted at the mention of his dying wife. "So, what do you want me to do? Should I call the police? Though, I'm not sure what I'd tell them. You're worried about your wife, because…"

"No, I'm about to board my flight now. I should be in Miami around 10-11 tonight."

"You want me to pick you up at the airport?" Sam offered freely without thought.

"No, stay with Elsa…I'll catch a cab."

"Ya sure? I don't mind…hospice will be covering tonight." Sam tried to lighten the mood, "Besides, Fiona will probably be home by the time you get in. She probably just took off on a little weekend holiday. You know the scenario: you'll surprise her by showing up at the house…she'll kick your butt to the curb…I'll have to come rescue you!"

"I don't think so, Sam," Michael's voice was quiet and dejected. "I have a bad feeling about this whole O'Neill thing. I'd like nothing better than to show up at midnight and have my "fiery old" Fi show me the door. But…" he let the thought hang, "Well, I gotta go, Sam. They're about to close the jet way doors."

'_*****'**_

_To be continued…_

_**'**********'**  
_

* * *

_**AN:** The next chapter may be a little longer in coming. I've been able to stay one chapter ahead, so as I posted a chapter, the next went to my Beta. I'm in the middle of a particularly brutal stretch of 24-hour call shifts. With the holiday thrown in this week, I'm pulling five 24-hours shifts in 9 days. I promise to update as soon as possible, but it might not be this weekend. Sorry..._


	5. Chapter 4

_**AN:**__ Sorry this chapter took so long. I finished all my hours/days of call, but then spent the next 3 days fighting migraines. My migraine trigger is lack of sleep. I guess I didn't choose my profession very well considering that particular ailment. Anyway, on to the next chapter…_

_Hopeful this chapter begins to answer some of the questions you have raised in your reviews. I want to thank each and everyone of you for continuing to follow this journey. Whether good or bad, this story is FAR from done. And to those of you who continue to offer reviews, corrections and alternative suggestions, THANK YOU! Your kind words make my day, your corrections keep me vigilant, and your suggestions keep me on my toes. So by all means, keep them coming!_

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* * *

**Part 4**

_Some people confuse acceptance with apathy, but there's all the difference in the world. Apathy fails to distinguish between what can and what cannot be helped; acceptance makes that distinction. Apathy paralyzes the will-to-action; acceptance frees it by relieving it of impossible burdens. – Arthur Gordon_

_Change is the end result of all learning. Change involves three things: First, a dissatisfaction with self – a felt void or need; second, a decision to fill the void or need; and third, a conscious dedication to the process of growth and change. – the willful act of making the change, doing something. – Leo Buscagalia_

'_*****'**_

* * *

Late Monday Night  
October 23, 2017  
Miami International Airport  
Miami-Dade County, Florida

Michael waited to de-board the plane, luggage in hand, as a line of passengers snaked ever so slowly along the aisle toward the exit. His head and shoulder still hurt like hell. He had hoped to catch a nap on the 10-hour flight over, but the bubbly English grandmother beside him hadn't given him a moment of peace. She was headed to the States for the first time to meet her new great grandbaby. Photographs in hand, she had talked for hours about her great granddaughter's pregnancy, the baby's birth, feedings, sleep schedules and everything imaginable, entailed in a newborn's care. Michael had endured the hours of chatter without a word of complaint, when all he really wanted was some quiet time to ponder his next step in the quest to find Fi. As he finally stepped out of the jet way into the terminal, he nearly tripped over an abandoned bag lying in the middle of the floor. He deftly swerved to miss the luggage, and instead nearly ran over its owner. The kindly grandmother from the flight was struggling to carry all her bags. He picked up the largest of her luggage, flashed her an indulgent smile and then escorted her toward the main terminal. Once they'd made it past security, the elderly woman was immediately ensconced in the waiting arms of her family. He handed off the remaining piece of luggage and waved a pleasant goodbye.

Drifting back into his own personal world of concern, Michael walked right past a waiting Sam, who was standing off to the side of a nearby escalator. As it was, Sam had to whistle twice, after shouting Michael's name failed to rouse him from his traumatized musings. Finally seeing his friend, Michael slogged Sam's way.

"What are you doing here? I thought I told you to stay with Elsa," Michael asked in a testy, bone-weary voice.

"Told ya, hospice was covering tonight," Sam pointed the way to the car. "After your insane day, I figured you'd appreciate a ride in the comfort of a caddy over some filthy Miami taxi."

"Thanks Sam," Michael managed to mumble around a heavy yawn.

"I take it you didn't get any sleep on the flight over?" Sam guided the way to the correct level of the parking garage and searched for the car.

Michael followed on his heels, barely taking note of his surroundings, "No, my seatmate was a new great grandmother," he yawned again and tried not to trip over his feet, "…I had to listen to stories about the new baby the entire trip over the sea, not to mention, admiring all the birthing photos."

"Ewww," Sam wrinkled his nose in disgust, "…can't say I envy you there." He hit the button on his key fob, locating his car by the beep, "Hey, you look pretty beat. I was going to suggest stopping for a bite to eat, but I suspect you're more interested in a bed and a good night's sleep."

"Cann't sleeeep," Michael mumbled again, slurring his words, as his head dropped back against the seat. "Need to…loooook…for cluuuess." He was asleep before Sam could maneuver the car out of the parking garage.

Sam let him doze the whole way home, stopping briefly at a drive thru to grab a sandwich and black coffee for the pair. Pulling into the drive of the Westen household, Sam noticed all the darkened windows. If Fiona had come home in the last few hours, there was certainly no evidence of her from the bleak abode. Of course, he reasoned, as he took note of the time, she could've already turned in for the night.

Taking a gander at the passenger seat, he called Michael's name, "Hey Mike!" His friend didn't even stir in his seat. Trying again, he gently shook Michael's shoulder, "Mikey! Hey sleeping beauty, we're home!"

Michael squinted his eyes against the glare of the car's interior lights, "Um, what'd you say, Sam?"

"I said, you're home," Sam stepped out of the car and reached into the backseat to retrieve the food, before glancing at his friend. "I picked us up a sandwich and some coffee, but maybe you'd be better off with a few hours of sleep first."

"Mmm up," Michael stumbled from the car, grabbing his satchel and overnight case from the backseat. He stared at his house, "Doesn't look like anyone's home." His frown deepened with a mixture of frustration and worry. He murmured under his breath, "I was really hoping for that fiery welcome home."

"What'd you say, Mike?"

"Nothing," he hooked the satchel over his shoulder and dug through his pocket in search of his keys. Wandering toward the door, he pushed his key into the lock and depressed the handle.

Sam shot out an arm in warning, "Best be careful, brother…if Fiona's here, she might just come gunning for you…literally!" He tossed Michael a bemused grin, "After all, she's not expecting any company."

Michael tentatively opened the door and flipped on an adjacent light. Seeing no evidence of weaponry pointed at his head, he crossed the threshold and dropped his gear on the floor. Pausing a moment to listen for any signs of life, he turned back to Sam.

"Hey Sam, the alarm isn't set!"

"Oh damn, I forgot to set it again when I left the house earlier," Sam squinted an eye and stared upward in thought, "…come to think of it, the alarm wasn't set when I arrived this afternoon."

"What?" Michael declared more than questioned. "Fi never leaves home for a few hours, much less an entire weekend without arming the alarm system. Knowing our colorful history and abundant enemies, she's pretty obsessive about that particular detail, especially since she can't keep an arsenal in the house."

That little morsel of news had a similar effect to a splash of ice water in his face; he was suddenly wide-awake and on high alert. He leaned back to Sam, "Did you mention something about coffee?"

"Yes indeedy," Sam handed him a cup, "…it's black and extra strong! I stopped at a little fly-by-night place my police buddies like to frequent. I figured we could both use the jolt of caffeine." He also offered the sandwich, "Figured you probably hadn't eaten since this whole mess exploded in your face this morning. Plus, I know how you feel about airline food."

"Maybe later," Michael waved off the food and meandered back toward the master bedroom in a hopeful search for his beloved wife. Switching on a bedside lamp, he peered around the empty room. There were stacks of folded laundry on the bed and a clothesbasket nearby on the floor, but no sign of Fiona. "Hey, didn't you mention something about Fi coming to your house tomorrow?"

"Affirmative," Sam mumbled around a mouthful of food, "…she's supposed to be there around 8 a.m. to spend the day with Elsa. There are no hospice nurses available until tomorrow night," Sam paused to swallow the bite, "…so Fi was taking over the dayshift duties, so I could spend the day at the office."

Michael backtracked to the kitchen and turned on the lights, bathing the room in brightness. "Well, either she forgot or…ah…." He left worrisome thought unspoken, unwilling to voice the worst.

"Maybe she was coming straight to our place in the morning," Sam offered, searching for other alternatives, "…you know how Fi is, Mikey! She's probably off enjoying some little beachfront bungalow…or shoe shopping…or whatever else she does with all her free time! She probably couldn't be bothered to tear herself away!"

Michael pinned him with an incredulous glare, "She express mailed divorce documents to me and you think she's off celebrating her new liberated life?"

Sam flashed him an impish grin and shrugged, "What can I say? It's Fi!"

Michael rolled his eyes, "Look, the divorce documents were mailed on Friday, and we know she was at your house on Thursday."

Michael shuffled through the paperwork on a desk in the back corner of the kitchen. Coming across an invoice for AAA Garage Door, Inc. "Hey Sam, did you notice this when you were here earlier?"

Sam reached for the invoice, studying the details, "Well lookie here, according to this invoice, the repair service was here on Friday."

"Exactly, but you said the garage door still wasn't working."

"It wasn't," Sam headed for the service door leading to the garage. Stepping over the threshold, he punched the button for the opener, "See…nada…it doesn't work, just like I said."

Michael followed his friend into the garage and pointed to the invoice, "It states right here that they needed to order an additional part. From the recorded date for follow-up, it looks like the repairman was supposed to return on Saturday afternoon to complete the necessary repairs." Michael repeatedly poked the button himself for good measure, "It still doesn't work, so either the repairman didn't return or he couldn't complete the repairs."

Michael pulled out his cell and proceeded to call the business, but only succeeded in reaching voice mail, "Hello, this is Michael Westen. Someone came to my house last Friday to repair the garage door opener. It appears the repairmen scheduled a follow-up appointment with my wife for the following day, Saturday, October 21st. I've just arrived home and the garage opener is still not working. I would appreciate it if someone could call me as soon as possible with further details about the scheduled repair." He left the numbers for both his cell and home phones, as well as, the home address.

He punched the end button with more force than necessary, "Damn, guess we'll have to wait until morning to hear back!" Glancing at his friend, he tried to temper his mood, "Look Sam, it's already after one in the morning why don't you head home to Elsa and I'll keep looking around here for any additional clues of Fi's whereabouts."

"You sure, Mike? I mean, I'd be happy to stay."

"It's okay, Sam," Michael shrugged with a weary smile, "…I'm not sure how much I'll find out tonight. Hopefully this AAA Garage Door Company will call back first thing in the morning. In the meantime, I'll keep trying to reach Fi and putter around here looking for intel. Besides, I want to give Sean a call."

Sam nodded, "Okay buddy, if you need me for anything, I'm just a phone call away!"

Michael walked him to the door, "Thanks Sam."

"Talk to ya in the morning," and with that Sam was out the door.

Michael glanced at his watch figuring it was just after six in the morning Dublin time. He decided to have a more thorough look through the house before bothering Sean. He carefully searched the house, top to bottom, looking for any hints about Fiona's schedule or weekend plans. Her study was spotless and her calendar for the upcoming week nearly bare, except for Tuesday with Elsa and Wednesday at the Women's Shelter. Heading back to the kitchen, he checked for recent leftovers and expired food, finding nothing out of the ordinary, he shuffled through the contents of the small desk once again. Nothing gave any indication of Fiona's weekend plans or current location, except for the invoice and follow-up appointment set for the previous Saturday.

He strode to his study and settled behind the desk. Flipping through his Rolodex for the desired information, he quickly located and dialed the number for Sean.

"Glenanne here," was Sean's curt greeting.

"Hey Sean, this is Michael. I was wondering…."

"Westen, what are ya doing calling at this time of morning? Don't ya bloody well ever sleep?" Sean fell back into his pillows with an aggravated sigh.

Michael massaged his temple, wishing for the ever-present headache to abate, "I'm really sorry, Sean, but this is about Fiona."

"What about her?" Sean's reply was instantaneous.

"I got word today from Interpol that Thomas O'Neill escaped from Whitemoor Prison."

"What? When?" Sean's short, no nonsense questions demanded an immediate reply.

"Ah," Michael fought to stifle a yawn, as he battled to stay alert, "…he escaped sometime last Friday morning. He had inside help and they've yet to locate him."

"Friday? How the hell did they let him get away?" Sean's voice raised several octaves.

"Like I said," Michael tried to calm his brother-in-law, " …Friday, early morning…He had inside help from two guards and an infirmary assistant. They caught the assistant driving through the U.K., and one of the guards in Cork after he jumped a freighter."

"What about the slimy bastard, O'Neill?" Sean's words were coming with punishing force.

"Interpol lost him," Michael tried to explain, "…he and the other guard boarded a cargo plane flying out of Colchester en route to just about anywhere…no one knows. The cargo company flies to the Middle East, Canada and the U.S. One of the flights that morning was headed stateside to the East coast, including…."

Sean cut him off, "Miami?"

"Yeah," Michael sighed in despair.

"So ya want me to come there and help protect my sister?"

"Well," Michael cringed as he delivered the dire news, "…I'm not sure where Fiona is at the moment."

"What's that ya saying?"

"Fiona's not home at the moment," Michael tried again.

"Well, where the bloody hell is she?" Sean's voice got impossibly louder, and Michael pulled the phone from his ear.

"Don't know," Michael spoke barely above a whisper. "I just flew in from London and have been trying to reach her all day."

"Great! You're off gallivanting all over the world and my sister is left to the mercies of the likes of O'Neill," Sean was seething.

"I've been reassigned…."

"Reassigned? To London?" Sean started pacing, his feet slapping hard against the old wooden floor. "So, let me get this straight, you're living in London and my sister is all by herself in Miami?"

"That's about the sum of things," Michael cringed at his phrasing, waiting for the anticipated outburst."

"When?"

"When what?" Michael asked in reply.

"When was the last time ya talked with her?" Sean growled out the words like a predator stalking its prey.

"Don't know," Michael fought to control his emotions and worry, "…about…3-4 weeks ago."

"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON, MICHAEL?"

"We're having some…problems," the last word died on his tongue.

"So just when my sister needs your help most, ya up and abandon her? Sean pulled the phone from his mouth and let fly a string of foul expletives loudly into the room. "Ya know, Westen…if I were there right now, I'd kill ya with my bare hands!"

"Yooou'd," Michael's voice finally broke, "…have to stand in line."

"So, what are we s'posed to do now," Sean tempered his anger, as he sought for a reasonable plan.

"I'm searching the house for clues," Michael inhaled a deep trembling breath, clamping back his pain. "I've also got a call out to a repair company that should've been here on Saturday. I'll know more in the morning." Michael rambled on, "In the meantime, Sean…can you do some checking around your own parts? Last time O'Neill surfaced, his plan was to abduct Fi and take her back to Ireland. Since he's yet to be located, and one of his guards showed up in Cork, I just thought maybe…."

"Yeah, I'll get right on it!" Sean turned peevishly quiet.

"Sean?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you please call me back, if you hear anything," Michael swallowed back a cry of concern.

"I'll call, but I don't know why I'd bother. Clearly, if you haven't spoken to my sister in a month, you're not all that concerned about her well being," Sean's voice was frosty and curt.

"You couldn't be more wroooong," Michael's voice crackled with unrestrained tears, "…we've had our misunderstandings of late, but I still looove her. I need to get her back, Sean. Pleeease," he begged.

"All right, man…pull yourself together and get to work. I'll call ya back in a few hours." And with those final words of advice, Sean was gone.

Michael tossed the phone aside and dropped his head into his hands. He was physically adrift, torn somewhere between exhaustion and fear. Refusing to allow either to gain dominance, he stalwartly determined to keep a level head. He made his way to the kitchen to brew a strong pot of coffee. While he waited for the caffeine fix to finish, he pulled out his cell and the business card for Colin Neville. It was just past 7 a.m. in London, so Michael dialed the agent's number on the off chance Neville was one of those early-to-work types. The agent answered on the third ring. Despite a 5-minute conversation, he was no further ahead than he'd been yesterday. Interpol was pursuing every lead, but so far there had been no sightings of the Irish terrorist. Neville begrudgingly admitted there were few leads left to chase, short of O'Neill suddenly popping out from his current hiding hole.

Balancing the mug of coffee and a breakfast bar in his right hand, he made his way to the front hall to retrieve his overnight bag then headed back to the master bedroom. Pausing just inside the door, he studied the room trying to shake his overpowering sense of emptiness and loss. The room screamed Fiona in every sense of the word. He'd acquiesced to her desires when it had come time to furnish and decorate their house. The only room in which he held sway had been his study. As he stood in the doorway of their private retreat, he had to admit the room was warm and inviting. She'd done a wonderful job with the entire house, but this room especially had been the perfect sanctuary just for them. He tried to remember if he'd ever mentioned to her how much he enjoyed it.

"Probably not," he muttered in derision to himself. He was always too busy planning and executing the next mission to take note of such trivial and mundane things. Now, as he surveyed the welcoming space, he realized it was anything but mundane or ordinary.

"I need to remember to tell her," the words trembled on his lips, as he chastised himself. It was but one of many things he needed to share with his wife, if he could only find her.

He set the mug and snack bar on the bedside table then proceeded on to the master closet. Shrugging off his clothes, he carefully hung them on the vast expanse of open rods that had once been his side of the closet. Staring at his suit as it hung in the emptiness of the space, he couldn't help but notice how it symbolized his current life. Turning around to Fi's side of the cavernous space, he allowed his fingertips to trip gently over the clothes. The garments were all so soft and small just like her. He marveled at the paradox that was his wife. Delicate, small, dainty even, by all outward appearances, but thunderous and strong on the inside.

"Well, she used to be," his voice echoed back in the vast surroundings, "…before…." Before! His mind silently mocked him. BEFORE. Before the baby and all of her other losses, before he took everything from her life. He stepped closer and breathed her in. Her presence was everywhere in the space. Her dresses, her sweaters, her jeans, her shoes, her handbags, her jewelry. He dropped the silken sleeve he had been caressing and fled from the closet. Turning on the shower full-blast and scalding hot, he stepped under the spray, trying to erase all the painful memories, the shame and the worry. He reached for his shower gel, but came up empty. Eyes darting around the enclosure, he realized there was no part of him left in the space. He grabbed the only other available soap and poured it onto his heated skin, left ruddy and perspiring under the burning water. The fragrance overwhelmed him, weighing him down to the floor; he collapsed in a heap on the bare tile. She surrounded him, in the air, on his skin, dripping from his hair. She was everywhere, except the one place she belonged. In his arms, under his fingertips, and on his lips. It had been so long for them, he almost couldn't remember her touch or her taste anymore. Water droplets slid down his cheeks, cascaded from his chest and mixed with the shower spray from overhead. He reached up to swipe them away, but more instantly appeared, and it was then he realized they were salty tears rather than just water. As he curled into himself, their last words growled and nipped at his consciousness, like angry lions demanding to be heard.

"Look at me, Michael!" She had demanded, while standing before him, her nakedness in full view. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't look at her that way. She'd grown insistent, testing his will and desire, but he couldn't indulge. It just wasn't right.

"Michael, TURN AROUND!" She had screamed with insistence, but he couldn't move.

"So, this bothers you…but why?" Each plea from her lips killed another part of his soul, until finally her erroneous supposition spurred him to action. "Do I now disgust you so completely…you can't even look at me?"

"Fi, NO!" He finally found his voice, propelling himself toward her, but it had been too late. Her face was raw with fury, but her eyes were dead with pain.

"Get out, I said! Get out!" She batted away his meager attempts to assuage her, until he fled from the room like a coward.

She hadn't understood. Those were her last memories of him, and she hadn't understood anything. He left her alone to deal with her humiliation and pain, as he hid in an upstairs bedroom. WEAK! The lions circled his mind one by one, swiping away his excuses. Pathetic, they snarled with teeth bared. Despicable, they roared.

It had all started out so innocently. He hadn't meant to intrude on her private moment, but when he saw her toweling off fresh from the shower, he couldn't look away. He should have left the room before she'd ever spotted him, but she was so beautiful. The drops of water gliding down her glistening skin. The perfect arch of her back. The sensuous curve of her thigh. The gracefulness of her every movement. It had been so long since he'd touched her in that way. As the towel slid over her shoulders and lower to caress her breasts, he wanted that towel to be his fingers and palm of his hand. The cascading water droplets, his lips on a meandering journey across her skin. The gasp escaped his mouth before he'd even formed it on his tongue. But he had no right to touch her, not until he had regained her trust. Never once had he been unfaithful to her in the physical sense; he had been honest about that. But the words he had spoken to her in that New York hospital room had driven a wedge between them as surely as if he had cheated. He watched the light go out of her eyes that day, as each cruel word struck its blow.

It had started after Venezuela; she'd been unsure and tentative from that point on. His homecoming was awkward and their reunion uncomfortable. He had made a promise to himself that very morning, while still intertwined in their bed, to work on regaining the relaxed and uncomplicated ease they'd shared with one another so early in their marriage. The loss of the baby had dealt them a significant blow, but it was the snuffing out of the actual dream, which had created a chasm between them. The events of Venezuela had eroded and nearly derailed their ability to bridge their divide. After their initial attempt at intimacy, Fi had been jumpy and uncomfortable in his presence. Simple gestures, like a stroke of his fingers or a guiding hand to her back, had caused her to flinch away from his touch. He was fairly certain she wasn't cognizant of her own reaction, but he took them to heart just the same. He knew he needed to rebuild her trust in him.

If Venezuela had impeded their bridge building, then New York had shot it to hell, as surely as a well-placed block of C4. He'd started the first few nights home in their bed, but his presence only prevented Fiona from sleeping. Whenever they drifted toward one another in their slumber, she would jerk awake at the very first touch of shared space or heat from his skin. After the third or fourth night of sleeplessness, she was exhausted and stressed by morning and testy throughout the day. In order to give them both a reprieve, he had chosen to take up residence in the guest room, hoping the separation would allow them the space to work out their difference. She was jittery in his presence, which only served to worsen his guilt. He couldn't tell her of his difficulties with the agency, and she could no longer trust him with her heart.

Two weeks into his self-imposed exile, they'd managed a tentative truce. He worked at being non-confrontational and respected her personal space. More and more he began referring to her by her proper name, Fiona, unable to suppress the emotional plea so evident in his voice at the soft utterance of his favored name, Fi. And as time passed, bit-by-bit, moment-by-moment, she seemed to become more at ease. At least until that horrible day, when fate crossed their paths just fresh from the shower. He hadn't meant to hurt her, even though his actions had done exactly that. He just knew in his heart and soul, he had no right to partake in her private moment. He didn't deserve to see her that way, or touch her that way, least of all love her that way. Not without first regaining her trust, her love, and her comfort. And so he'd fled like a coward, rather than try to explain.

Michael shook away the nightmares of that fateful last day. Shivering on the cold tile floor of the shower, he managed to push himself upright under the beating attack of the cold water. His muscles were stiff and sore, his skin pale and transparent as ice. His teeth chattered uncontrollably like a jackhammer, threatening to chip off the enamel in razor-thin shards. As he reached out to shut off the shower, his numb fingers fought to grip the knob. He stepped from the enclosure, grabbing an adjacent towel to wipe away the remaining moisture, then wrapped it tightly around his waist. Walking toward the bedroom, his gate was unsteady, his legs threatening to give out. He tiptoed past his overnight bag, opting for the warmth offered by the bed. He took note of the folded laundry, crossed to the Fiona's side and launched himself under the blankets. Her pillow released her scent as soon as his face made contact. He burrowed in deeper, reveling in the comfort of her smell. All the previous day's events coalesced and collapsed upon him forcing him into a deep slumber, before his fear could appeal to the logic of his more rational side.

Two hours later, he awoke to the sounds of rolling thunder and the pitter-patter of rain. His eyes cracked open still thick with sleep. His mind felt foggy and disoriented. He looked around the room trying to decipher his location. When he recognized home, he smiled and started to drift back to sleep, until he remembered Fiona. He sat up in bed, frantic and angry with himself for wasting time sleeping. He reached for the clock on Fi's nightstand, taking note of the time. It was already past five in the morning, and he'd yet to devise a plan to locate his wife. Setting the clock aside, he noticed her silver bracelet.

He lifted the shiny object from the nearby nightstand and studied it in the faint early morning light. A loud clap of thunder followed by multiple streaks of lightening illuminated the room, causing the bracelet to sparkle in the intense light. Twisting the bracelet around his fingers he pondered the cherished heirloom. It had been given to Fiona by her favorite grandmother. Fi told him it held special sentimental significance when he'd inquired about its origin years ago. She wore it most everywhere and was very rarely without it. In fact, the only time she left it at home was when they were dressed for a formal occasion. He caressed the large heart-shaped charms, then turned on the bedside lamp to examine them closer. He'd only remembered one heart dangling from the bracelet last time he took note. It was engraved with the letter "C." When he asked Fi about the significance, she's simply stated it was a remembrance and offered nothing more. He had assumed the heart-shaped charm was for Claire. Now, as he examined the second charm with the letter "B" engraved at its center, he wondered about its meaning. There'd been no recent family losses, except for their child. The only explanation he could surmise for the letter "B" was "baby." They'd never discussed a name for their daughter, but it made sense the charm would represent their lost child. He placed the bracelet back on the nightstand still pondering the idea that Fiona hadn't taken it with her.

Fiona!

Realizing he hadn't tried to call her since arriving in Miami last night, he quickly grabbed the portable phone off the table and dialed her cell. Waiting for the call to go through, he prayed she was on her way back to Miami to spend the day with Elsa. As the bedside phone began to ring, he heard the sound echoed back within the confines of the house. Jumping from the bed, he followed the ringing sound, until it stopped and rolled over to voice mail. Disconnecting the call, he dialed her cell again and followed the responding ring to the kitchen. He found the cell phone in her purse, which had been discarded on a kitchen chair and pushed under the table. Rifling through the purse, he located her keychain with both her house and car keys.

The discovery sent him into a panic. He ran to the bedroom throwing on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. He grabbed his cell from where he'd abandoned it on his nightstand and quickly punched the number for Sam. As he waited for his friend to pick up, he jogged out the front door, scanning the distance for any sign of Fiona's car. Finding the street empty, he raced back inside just as Sam answered the call.

"'Lo," was Sam's mumbled reply.

"Sam!" Michael yelled into the phone trying to rouse his sleeping friend.

"Mmmm," was the muttered reply.

"Sam, wake-up!"

"Mmm up," Sam yawned loudly, as Michael heard the rustling of sheets. "Whaaat time's it?"

"After 5…come on, Sam…I need you!"

That got his friend's attention, "Did you find Fi?"

"No!" Michael shouted, as his adrenaline kicked in, "…but I found her purse and cell phone! Her keys are inside, Sam! She couldn't have gone anywhere, at least not without her purse and keys!"

"Maybe she went with a friend," Sam offered in his groggy state, as he almost tripped, stepping into his pants.

"But why would she leave her purse and cell phone home?" Michael asked, as his mind jumped several steps ahead.

"Ah," Sam stumbled for an explanation, as he reached for his shirt and shoes. "I'm sorry, Mike…I don't have a better answer. Look, I'm on my way. I'll call my police buddy from the car, see if anything's turned up."

"See ya when you get here," Michael shoved the phone into his pocket, as he searched for more clues.

He ran into the garage and began exploring every surface, corner, nook and cranny. He berated himself for not being more thorough in his endeavors the night before. His workbench was clear, except for Fi's gardening tools. Her car was missing, as previously noted, but his was parked in its usual spot on the far side of the garage. He dropped to his knees, scanning the floor. His eyes immediately caught sight of a metal toolbox on the floor behind his car. He jumped up to retrieve the box, taking note of the company emblem decaled on the front side.

"AAA Garage Doors…damn it! How did I miss that?" I really am off my game, he silently muttered to himself. As the fall storm raged outside the house, a flash of lightening illuminated the early morning sky and brightened the window, drawing his attention to a glint of silver beside his rear tire. Kneeling down to inspect further, another flash of lightening broke through. He sighed in distress, as he picked the syringe up from the floor.

Carrying the toolbox and the syringe into the kitchen, he placed them both on the table. Opening the toolbox, he found a half empty vial of midazolam, along with additional syringes. Hands shaking, he swallowed hard against the sensation of nausea, which rapidly rose in his chest. He retrieved his satchel and booted up his computer. Bringing up the browser, he quickly searched for AAA Garage Doors and clicked on their internet link. He found the owner's name and traced it back to a home phone. He punched in the number, waiting for someone to answer.

"Hello," the voice was hoarse with sleep.

"I need to speak to the owner of AAA Garage Doors," Michael spoke with an authoritative, demanding voice.

"This is he," the response was more coherent.

"You sent a repairman to my home…."

"Do you know what time it is?" The man yelled into the phone, threatening to hang up.

"Wait! Please, my wife is missing and I need your help," Michael softened his tone, his voice breaking under the stress.

"What?"

"I need your help!"

"What can I do for you?" The voice responded to Michael's distress with a gentler tone.

"My wife," Michael cleared his throat and tried again, "…my wife is missing. You had a repairman here on Friday to fix our garage door opener. He left an invoice and made an appointment to return on Saturday with a new part."

"Okay," the owner interrupted trying to follow Michael's train of thought.

"The opener is still broken, but I found one of your toolboxes in my garage along with a syringe and a vial of a powerful sedative." Michael waited for the owner to respond.

"You think my repairman took your wife?" The owner's voice was incredulous, "Look son…."

"Sir, I don't have time to argue with you!" Michael took the offensive, "All I know is I've been unable to reach my wife for over 24 hours, her car is missing and her purse and keys are still here at home. Then I find one of your toolboxes with a medicine vial in my garage. I'd like for you to explain…."

"Wait a minute, do you know the name of the repairman?"

"Yeah, just a minute," Michael reached for the invoice, "…his name is Justin Baker."

A heavy sigh filtered through the phone, "Justin didn't come to work yesterday, nor did he call in sick. We were unable to locate his company van, so apparently he didn't return it after his shift on Saturday."

"So, you have no idea of your employee's whereabouts?"

"No, I'm sorry I don't," the man sighed again, "…but this isn't like Justin at all. He's a great guy and a really responsible worker. In fact, he's one of my managers. We were short on Friday and Saturday, so he offered to fill the Saturday shift for extra money. He's divorced and works hard to support his three kids. I can't imagine him having anything to do with your wife's disappearance."

Michael cringed at the owner's glowing description of his worker, "Do you by any chance have Justin's home number."

"Yes, I'm almost certain I have it in my cell phone directory."

"Could you give it to me?" Michael begged over the line.

"Um," the owner stammered, "…I'm not sure it would be wise to give out an employee's personal information."

"Then could you please call the number to see if he's home?" Michael pleaded with the man, "Pleeease, I'll take any information he can provide…it's important!"

"Okay," the owner acquiesced and took down Michael's name and number with a promise to call back.

As Michael disconnected the phone, he poured a large mug of coffee to reheat in the microwave. Pacing the floor, he gingerly sipped the hot caffeinated-brew, hoping it would impart a serious dose of clarity to his sleep-addled mind. Just as he was about call Sam, the phone rang.

"Westen residence," Michael answered promptly.

"Ah yes, Mr. Westen, this Sam Drower…owner of AAA Garage Doors."

"Thank you for calling me back, Mr. Drower," Michael set aside the mug of coffee to concentrate on the call.

"I'm sorry I don't have better news," Sam Drower paused to inhale deeply, "…um, Justin Baker didn't answer his home phone."

"I see," Michael's voice dropped, disappointment evident in his tone.

"I ah," the man swallowed, "…I called his ex-wife. She said," another nervous sigh, "…Justin was supposed to…have his kids on Sunday…."

"Let me guess, he didn't show," Michael's reply was monotone.

"No, I'm afraid not," Sam Drower cleared his throat, not wanting to go on. "She, his ex-wife, is quite worried. Justin's never missed a day with his kids, except for rare extenuating circumstances. He always calls if he's unable to make it."

"I take it, she's not heard from him?"

"No," Mr. Drower paused again, longer this time. "You know, I don't know what to think. Justin has worked for me for 15 years, and he's never…I can't imagine him doing something like this to your wife. I mean I've never had a complaint filed on him…15 years."

Michael's gaze rose to the ceiling, as he studied the plaster design. "Mr. Drower," Michael tried to control the tremble in his voice, "…I'm not sure Justin actually took my wife…."

"Excuse me?"

"Um, he may have been the victim in all this," Michael closed his eyes, "…you see, there was a prisoner who escaped…."

"What?"

"He's ah…he's a very dangerous man, and…."

Sam Drower interrupted again, "Are you saying Justin might have been injured…."

"Yes," Michael chose his words carefully, unable to give voice to a far worse outcome, "…I ah, wouldn't necessarily assume the worst, but…."

"But?"

"Have you or his ex-wife contacted the police?"

"Actually," Mr. Drower answered, "…she was calling them, as we hung up. Oh boy, maybe I should head on over to her house. Their family has been a loyal member of my business for years. It would be heartbreaking if…." The business owner was unable to go on.

"I think that might be a good idea, Mr. Drower," Michael tried to comfort the man. "Thank you for getting back to me so fast. Let's hope the best for all involved."

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Westen," Sam Drower hung up the phone.

Michael dropped into a nearby chair, unable to fully process the latest news. He reached for Fiona's purse, pouring out all of its contents onto the table. He felt guilty for going through her private things, but he hoped against all odds it held a clue to her whereabouts. He found the aforementioned keys and cell phone. Pulling up her missed call list, he found the 30 or 40 calls placed by he and Sam, and a couple from his mother. Outgoing calls had been scant with the last placed to Sam a week prior. Her wallet contained the usual collection of money, ID, license and credit cards. He took note of each particular credit card, finding them all present. He tossed aside a packet of tissues then sifted through a thin pile of paperwork. In the midst of the stack, he found two small photographs, one of him and Fi, and the other a duplicate to the photo in his office drawer. He studied the photos, running his fingertips over the surface, caressing her face. On a whim, he stuck the pictures into his pocket. He rarely carried photographs with him unless they were part of his cover, but at the moment he wasn't Michael Westen the spy, he was just Michael, husband of a missing wife.

Looking over the paraphernalia scattered across the tabletop, his eyes caught sight of a simple tube of lipstick. Removing the cap and rolling the tube up, he leaned closer to study the pale shade of the lip color. He recognized it as her favorite, soft and unassuming as her gorgeous face. She didn't need the brash and garish colors of bright red and fuchsia pink to call attention to her beauty. Hers was a natural and elegant look. He smeared a stripe of the soft coral across the tip of his index finger then lifted it to his nose, he realized it smelled exactly as she tasted. Closing his eyes and inhaling deeper, he could detect a light floral scent mixed with honey and just a hint of citrus. He touched his finger to his lips and memories came flooding back. The night he proposed, they'd celebrated into the early morning hours; she'd tasted like this. A long weekend to the Virgin Islands, a secluded villa with private beach access, she tasted like this. A quiet anniversary dinner over candlelight in the privacy of their new home, she tasted like this. A thousand other times over the last 10 years, in each of their heartfelt greetings, adventurous celebrations, quiet times and intimate moments, she had tasted just like this. Tears dropped from his lashes, one by one, trailing down his cheeks, as he savored each of those moments. He had to get her back.

The ringing of his cell phone drew him back from his memories to the current reality of his life. He swiped away the tears and swallowed down the emotions, as he answered the phone.

"Yeah."

"Hey Mike, I'm sorry this is taking a while…."

"Sam, I found a toolbox from the repairman in the garage, there were syringes and a vial…."

"Ah yeah, about that…."

Michael continued undeterred by Sam's voice, "…a powerful sedative. I caught up with the owner of AAA Garage Doors. The repairman…."

"Mike, listen buddy…."

"…hasn't been seen since Saturday. He missed an outing with his kids and was a no show on Monday…."

"Mike!"

"Mr. Drower, the owner, says he's a very reliable guy and has been a model employee…."

"Mike, listen to me…."

"…for 15 years. Sam, I'm worried! What if O'Neill got them both…."

"MIKE!"

Michael stopped talking when Sam's scream finally penetrated through his frenzied narrative, "What Sam? I just wanted to tell you about the repairman…."

Sam tried again, "Mike, I know all about Justin Baker."

"What?" Michael was confused, "How do you know about Justin Baker?"

Sam released a weary sigh, "Because I'm staring at him right now."

"You found them? Is Fi with him?" Michael's voice rose with excitement.

"No, buddy…Fiona's not with him." Sam paused to let that news sink in.

Michael jumped to the next conclusion, "Well, does he know where she is?"

"Mike, I don't know how to tell you this, but…." Sam inhaled again, "…Justin Baker is dead."

"Dead?"

"Yeah, the police just located the van after his ex-wife called it in. He's been dead at least a couple of days." Sam paused waiting for Michael's response, but heard only silence. "Hey Mike, you still there?"

"Yeah," Michael's tears flooded back.

"Justin…he uh…he was shot in the head, but not before they stole his work shirt and toolbox."

"That's how they got in," Michael's emotionless monotone voice cut in.

"Looks like it," Sam hated to deliver the next bit of news. "Mike, you still there?"

"Mmmm…."

"There's something else," Sam paused as he sought for the right words, "…they uh…they found Fiona's car."

"Wha…what? I don't understand…I…how," Michael stuttered over his thoughts, as he picked up her key ring, "…her keys…I have her keys in my hand."

"Yeah, about that," Sam shook his head, "…the key in the car…it looks like a spare ring."

Michael stood up and robotically walked to the kitchen desk. Opening the drawer, he searched through the container of extra keys. Hers was missing. "Key…missing," was all he managed to speak.

"Mike, you still with me, brother?" He could hear Michael's heavy breathing through the phone. "Um, there's a little good news…at least, there's no sign of Fiona in the car, so uh…so they must have taken her with them."

"Where's the car?"

"There are several blood smears in the backseat, so I suspect she's putting up a good fight," Sam grasped at any small bit of hope.

"Where?"

Sam paused before delivering the bad news, "A, ah…small beach inlet with a, ah…with a boat dock leading to the, um…the open water."

'_*****'**_

_To be continued_


	6. Chapter 5

_**AN: **__ I want to apologize for taking so long to get this current chapter finished and posted. A close personal friend had a horrible and unexpected death occur in his family. I was busy trying to help him cope with the tragedy._

_I want to thank all of you who are still reading my story; I appreciate you taking the time out of your busy schedules. And for those of you who have reviewed and private messaged me, your kind words have made my day! Again, I hope the delay in posting hasn't scared any of you off from reading my story. This current chapter is extra long, hopefully, making up for my tardiness._

_Finally, I realized in the previous chapter I referred to a medication called midazolam (i.e. Versed in the U.S.) without explaining its medical properties and uses. Versed is a powerful sedative, often used for medical procedures, or whenever you need a patient heavily sedated. It also has __**amnesiac properties**__, thus a patient doesn't remember events occurring around the time of administration. It does NOT have any pain control features. Thus, as I always remind my medical residents, the patient will experience pain, but not remember it. Actually, what I usually say rather bluntly is, "So, you want the patient to forget you just hurt them?" Versed is almost always used in conjunction with a pain medication, such as morphine or fentanyl, in a hospital setting._

'_************'**_

* * *

**Part 5**

_I don't like these cold, precise, perfect people, who, in order not to speak wrong, never speak at all, and in order not to do wrong, never do anything. – Henry Ward Beecher_

_Negligence is the rust of the soul that corrodes through all her best resolves. – Owen Feltham_

'_*****'**_

* * *

…_Padraiq held her hands within the strength of both of his own, as he laid his heart bare in the sharing of the secret of his remedy. "Tonight on this night of great harvest feast, the Samhain…"_

"…_the Great Queen Morrigan and her minion of fairies will ride across the land. I, Padriaq O'Kelly, as their champion Elfin Knight must ride beside them as they wage war against ye mere mortals._

"_Oh Padriaq," Sarnait cried out, "…what shalt become of thee, if thou shouldest fail at war?"_

"_Queen Morrigan shalt extract a great price," Padriaq sorrowfully explained, whilst still grasping Sarnait's hands. "I shall spend the rest of my days imprisoned within the confines of Queen Morrigan's forest, never to roam free again."_

"_But Padriaq," Sarnait wept, "…how can thee wage war against thy true brethren. Doth thou not slay thy own soul more in war, than in the punishment brought upon thee by the Queen?"_

"_If I doth not follow her command to fight, then I have not so much as a single chance to become mortal again and roam among my true brethren." Padraiq bowed his head in shame, "But, if I followeth her into war, there is one chance, slight as it be, that I mayest return to the mortal realm and live amongst my family."_

_Sarnait looked up with determined eyes, "I beseech thee, Padraiq, with all my heart. Pray tell, what shall I do to help thee?"_

_Padraig stole a deep breath, while clasping the fair maiden's hands even tighter. "When midnight cometh, wait by the crossroad and ye shall spy three separate companies of elves pass by. Let the first two gatherings pass unimpeded. When the third group doth appear, ye shalt recognize me by the golden crown upon my brow and the snow-white charger beneath me. When thou doth distinguish me, run forth and wrench me from my steed._

'_Sarnait's beautiful eyes grew wide with fear, "But my dear Padraiq, what if I shalt injure thee in my pursuit?"_

"_Ye shalt not," Padraiq smiled at her concern, bringing to bare all the love dwelling in his eyes. "Physical wounds shalt quickly pass, but failure in this one small chance, shalt imprison my life forever and ever."_

_Sarnait nodded her head, as tears dropped from her eyes, "I promise thee I shalt succeed, or die in the pursuit to free thee from thy burdens._

_Reaching up to caress her cheek, Padraiq continued on with his tale, "Remember this one thing, holdest me tight to thy breast and never let go. No matter what evil or cruel spell Morrigan and her minions may cast, thou canst never let go."_

"_I promise thee on mine life and life of my father, I shalt free thee from thy bonds. By this time on the morrow thou shalt be a mortal again and free to live amongst thy brethren._

"_I swear thee an oath, my dear Sarnait. If we succeed in this, our endeavor, I shalt love thee forever. I wilt take thee as mine wife, and bequeath myself as thine husband, to provide and care for thee for the remainder of our days." He leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss upon her cheek. "Now, hasten home my love, and sleep well, so thou mayst be prepared to do battle this night against the Great Queen Morrigan, for my life, nay my very soul, dependeth on thee."_

_Sarnait rose to her feet, whilst Padraig remained on bended knee. Leaning forward, she returned the chaste kiss and whispered back, "I shalt return soon, my love!" She then hastened back to Ua Conchobhair in the Kingdom of Connacht, while Sir Padraig O'Kelly watched on, counting the moments to his freedom._

'_*****'**_

* * *

Tuesday Morning  
October 24, 2017  
The Glenanne-Westen Home  
Miami, Florida

Michael stood absolutely still, staring at the phone. Seconds turned to minutes and he didn't utter a single word. Sam kept calling his name in the background, but the words didn't penetrate Michael's desperate world of overwhelming fear and loss.

Finally, Sam yelled into the phone, "MICHAEL!"

"Whaaat?"

"I'm on my way there right now. I just wanted to make sure you were okay." Sam tried to get Michael to respond, but the phone just echoed back silence. "Hang on, I'm just a block over," and with that Sam hung up the phone.

Two minutes later, Sam came running through the door. He found Michael still clasping the phone in his right hand, while he stared aimlessly at his left. Reaching for the phone, Sam punched the end button and set the cell phone aside.

"Michael?" Sam peered down at his friend.

"Fi," Michael softly muttered, while staring at his hand.

"I know, buddy," Sam pulled up an adjacent chair to the table, sitting beside him. "Look, don't worry…we're gonna get her back."

Michael just continued to stare at his hand. Sam's eyes followed Michael's line of sight, until he noticed the open tube of lipstick. Michael had it grasped between his fingers, eyes studying it intently, as if he could somehow will Fiona to appear from its waxy depths.

"Hey Mikey," Sam reached for the lipstick trying to pull it from his friend's hand. Michael's grip tightened, as he held on for dear life, fear etched in deep furrows across his face.

"Mike!" Sam yelled, finally wrenching the tube away from the ghostly white hand.

"Whaaat?" Michael's eyes darted aimlessly around the room, wild and unseeing, until they finally landed on the concerned gaze of his friend. He quickly diverted them away, embarrassed at being caught in the demons of his own private world. He scrubbed a hand harshly up and down his face, trying to wipe away his exhaustion. He needed to focus and formulate a plan, but everything felt fuzzy.

He glanced back at Sam, a self-conscious smile dancing on his lips, "Sorry Sam, I guess I'm more exhausted than I thought."

Sam continued to scrutinize him with more than a little worry, "You get any sleep last night?"

"Mmm little," Michael shrugged noncommittally, all the while trying to maneuver to a stand. He immediately sunk back into his chair, when his legs trembled and gave out.

"Hey," Sam jumped up from the table, "…why don't I make us both some coffee?" Sam hastily assessed the situation, noting the other man's pallor, sunken eyes and tremulous hands.

"Alreeeady coffeeee in pottt," Michael's words slurred slightly.

Sam flushed the remainder of the old brew down the sink and started a fresh batch, all the while keeping a concerned eye on his friend. Michael's nails repetitively scratched at his forehead raising a series of angry red welts, while the fingers of his other hand were twitching and jumping erratically across the tabletop like popcorn kernels in a sizzling hot pan.

"Ah Mike, by any chance did you eat that sandwich last night?" Sam pulled open the refrigerator door peering inside.

"Nooo," Michael mumbled shaking his head in jerky movements, "…was-in hungrrry."

Finding a cartoon of eggs, some grated cheese and a menagerie of fresh vegetables, Sam loaded up the counter next to the cook top, then went looking for the right pan. Finding the necessary cooking utensils, he began cracking eggs in a mixing bowl and whisked them lightly with a fork. He glanced at his buddy and noticed the fine glistening of sweat droplets beading across his upper lip and brow.

"Hey, when was the last time you ate anything," Sam circled back to the fridge, retrieving a carton of fresh orange juice.

"Don't memmberrr," Michael stared off glassy-eyed into space. He furrowed his brow in thought, "Brefiss bar," he shook his head, "…ah, no…fore therapy yeserdaaay…no waait…." His tongue flicked out licking at the tingling sensation spreading across his lips.

Sam placed a glass before him on the table, "Here drink that…."

"Nooo," Michael wrinkled his nose, pushing the glass away with a shaky hand.

"Drink it!" Sam bellowed in a loud drill sergeant voice.

Michael's eyes widened, as he reached for the glass. Sipping it gingerly, he watched Sam's every move. "What doooing?"

"Making you an omelet, mister," he pointed the business end of a chef's knife in Michael's direction, "…which you are going to eat, if I have to feed it to you myself!"

"Not hungry," Michael's words were articulated with better clarity, as he continued to sip the juice, his blood sugar noticeably on the rise.

Sam pierced him with a withering glare, daring Michael to cross him. "Look here, buddy! You'll be no good to Fiona incoherent and seizing from hypoglycemia in some God forsaken corner of the world."

"But..."

"Hey, if you have a death wish, save it for Fiona to tan your hide," Sam flipped the omelet in the pan, "…you are not dying on my watch!"

"Yogurt," Michael pointed toward the fridge, but Sam cut him off.

"You need some serious protein, brother," Sam slid the omelet onto a plate and slammed it down in front of Michael with a loud thud. "And you and I both know a little carton of yogurt isn't gonna cut it!"

Sam loomed over Michael daring him to test his resolve. Michael cut off a small piece of the eggs, lifting the fork to his mouth. The smell of the food made his stomach roil in protest. Sam quirked his head glaring at Michael out of the corner of his eye, dangerous storm clouds gathering in its depths.

"I mean it," Sam settled his hands akimbo on his hip, voice menacing in its threats, "…I'll have that puppy down your throat so fast, you won't have time to blink! You think Fiona is quick, she's got nothing on a Navy Seal with a crucial mission!"

Michael dropped the bite of omelet into his mouth and quickly scooped up another. He forced the first bite down his throat, swallowing repeatedly. Downing the second bite close behind, he suddenly realized the cheese and veggies were extra hot. He reached for the juice glass finding it empty.

"Water," he gasped around his burning tongue. Sam quickly offered a glass of cool water, figuring the extra fluids would ward against dehydration.

Halfway through his breakfast, when his stomach had finally settled, Michael realized the omelet actually tasted quite good. He flashed Sam a sheepish grin, "Not bad for a Navy Seal who was a confirmed bachelor for years and years."

"Hey, you should know by now that Sammy knows how to treat a lady the morning after," Sam puffed out his chest in pride. "Maybe I could teach you a thing or two…give you a few pointers on how to treat your wife."

Michael's whole demeanor deflated, "Yeah, well…clearly I need pointers on more than a few things, if I'm ever going to convince Fiona to take me back."

"Let's just concentrate on GETTING her back first," Sam slid a second omelet onto a plate for himself. Gathering up his cup of coffee, along with the plate, he wondered over to the table.

"Can I get some of that," Michael pointed at the coffee, "…I think I could use the caffeine."

"You know, I was thinking," Sam pushed his own cup of coffee out of Michael's reach, "…maybe you should skip the caffeine and get some sleep."

"Plenty of time to sleep in the grave," Michael instinctively quipped, as he stood up to retrieve his own cup of coffee.

"Could we both agree not to use that particular form of imagery considering…" Sam left the remainder of the thought unvoiced.

Michael dropped back into his chair with his own coffee, downing half the mug in a single gulp. "What?" He countered at Sam's incredulous scowl, "…I'm going to need the caffeine to keep me going," he polished off the last bite of his omelet, "…besides, I can always sleep on the plane."

"Plane?" Sam's voice raised an octave; his mug paused halfway to his lips. "You going somewhere?"

"Yeah," Michael was the one with the challenging gaze this time, "…I have to go book a flight to Ireland."

"But we don't even know…."

"Come on Sam," Michael taunted, "…O'Neil tried it last time, his accomplice is already in Cork and…."

"But don't you want to be sure first, before you go flying off halfway around the world," Sam gulped down his coffee, "…besides, I can't head off to Ireland with you. I have Elsa…."

Michael gathered up his dishes, rinsing them in the sink, then topped off his coffee, "Sam, I appreciate all you've done already to help me locate Fiona. I know you have responsibilities here with Elsa. I don't expect you to drop everything and fly to Ireland with me."

"But you can't go off by yourself…."

Michael stepped up beside Sam, a sparkle of life back in his eyes. "But I won't be alone, Sam," Michael lips twitched in a wry half-smile, "…don't forget, Fi has five brothers. I doubt I'll have trouble finding help. In fact, they'll probably be fighting to be the one to take O'Neill out with their bare hands." His voice suddenly dropped to a thoughtful, if not slightly apprehensive whisper, "That's if they don't kill me first."

"Why would they…."

"I, ah…I talked to Sean yesterday," Michael downed another gulp of coffee and grimaced, "…he's not to happy with me right now." At Sam's questioning stare, he continued on, "It didn't take him long to figure out that not only were Fi and I on different continents, but we hadn't spoken in almost a month. He pretty much blames this whole fiasco on me."

"Wheww," Sam whistled, "…nothing like starting out your mission with a little Irish ire…I can't even fathom Sean times five!"

Michael shrugged, "Can't say that I blame him." He started to walk away, but turned back, clapping a hand down on his friend's shoulder. "Thanks for the breakfast, Sam…and the stern lecture telling me what I needed to hear."

"You got it, brother!"

"I, ah," Michael pointed over his shoulder, "…I'm going to go call Sean back. See if he's heard anything." And with that, Michael was gone from the room.

* * *

_As she began to stir, the first thing she noticed was the loud noise of engines. They vibrated the entire surface on which she lay. She cautiously pried open an eye, but immediately shut it again when her head began to throb. Any attempt to move her arms was impeded by the straps wrapped around her wrists behind her back. She struggled to loosen the strapping, but only succeeded in embedding it further into her skin. Her right arm was numb from baring the weight of her body, as she laid on her side. She kicked her legs, but found them bound too. Exhausted from that little exertion of energy, she dropped her head back down on the firm, hard surface of the floor. Her lips were dry and cracked; her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. As she pried her tongue loose, she tasted the metallic tang of blood. Quirking open her eye again, she peered through the slit of her lids. Her vision was partially obscured by errant strands of her hair. As she fought to ignore the ongoing discomfort of the nagging headache, she glanced at her surroundings. There were wooden crates everywhere around her. She tried to inch her way forward to see around a crate, but her muscles refused to follow the commands of her brain. She wiggled her fingers and toes instead, thus assuring herself they would move. Closing her eye again, she tried to remember where she was and how she got there, but her memory was a blank. Michael! She needed to find Michael was her fleeting thought as darkness closed in upon her again._

* * *

Michael dropped into is office chair and began searching his computer for flights to Ireland. He cursed his previous impetuous decision to fly from London to Miami, reasoning he'd be just a short hop from his wife now, if he'd remained in London. Of course, his recent arrival in Miami had allowed him to search their home, thus locating the information about the garage door company and the subsequent abduction of Fiona. He knew the latter was the missing link to their current intel, insufficient as it was at the moment to document Fiona's present locale. As the two sides of his brain warred with one another over his dumbest move to date, the ringing of his cell phone forced an unsettled truce.

"Westen here," Michael quickly took the call.

"Okay, I might have found…."

"Sean?"

"Aye, who else ya expecting to call with an Irish accent at this time of the morning, Westen?" Sean bit back, clearly still peeved at Michael's earlier revelations.

Michael sighed, realizing nothing about the current manhunt was going to be easy. "So have you heard anything about O'Neill, Sean?"

"Aye, there's rumblings around the network, but no definite intel to date," Sean's voice started to mellow a bit. "How about you, find out anything in the last few hours?"

Michael dreaded sharing the news with Fiona's family, "Ah yeah, I was able to track down the owner of a company doing some work on the house. Seems, Fi made an appointment for Saturday, but the work was never done. When I finally contacted the owner of the business, he hadn't seen his employee since that Saturday morning. Long story short, the police found the employee dead in his truck a few blocks from the house."

"So ya think this employee was somehow involved with taking my sister?"

"No," Michael sighed again, "…I think he just had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I think O'Neill most likely killed him then used the employee's cover to gain entrance to our home."

"That's crazy talk, Westen," Sean's voice was agitated and gaining in volume by the second. "Why would my sister open the door for that bastard?"

Michael tried to remain calm under Sean's verbal assault, "You forget, he still has a prison guard with him. I don't think O'Neill would be stupid enough to approach the house on his own…at least, not until Fi was subdued."

Sean paused in thought for a moment, before continuing on, "That's all ya got…a dead guy?"

"No," Michael began rubbing his temple in tight concentric circles, as his previous headache threatened to rebound. "I ah…I found a toolbox for the repair company in the garage behind my car…and a, ah…."

"Spit it out Westen," Sean bellowed, "…time's a wasting and my sister ain't no closer to being found!"

"There was a used syringe and a bottle of a powerful sedative with the toolbox," Michael reluctantly offered.

"So the bastards drugged her then stole her from the house!"

"Looks that way…and ah, Sean?"

"Aye?"

Michael closed his eyes trying to imagine the Irishman's face. "Sam was out scouting with the cops this morning," he paused to inhale deeply, "…they found Fiona's car near a boat dock leading to open water."

"Damn," Sean muttered, before letting loose with a few other choice words. "So, ya think they're headed this way?"

"That's my guess," Michael swallowed back the lump forming in his throat, "…he planned to auction her off last time for a big reward, and I doubt he has much money at his disposal after being locked up the last 7-8 years."

Sean's irritation peeked through again, "So, are ya headed this way to help find your wife…or are ya just leaving her kin folk to tend to her this time?"

Michael could imagine the snarl on Sean's face, as clearly as if he were standing before him. "I was just booking my flight when you called, but it's going to take time. I wish I were still in London, then I'd be…"

"Don't mention another word about London, if ya know what's good for ya, Michael!" Sean bellowed into the phone, between huffing breaths and growls. "If me brothers hear ya left her for London, they'll never let ya within a mile of ya wife. As far as the rest of me family knows, Fiona got captured unaware. After all these years of being married to an American spy, they figure her skills have gone soft over there, but if I tell them…."

"I appreciate the advice, Sean," Michael's voice began to tremble, "…all I want is Fioonna back safe and sound. You all can do whateveeer you want with meee, once we have her back, but pleeease…."

Sean cut him off, before he could break down completely, "What time's your flight getting in?"

"Tomorrow morning, 5:20 a.m. …"

"Tomorrow? That's the best ya can do?"

"It's the earliest flight, Sean," Michael tired to explain, "…I leave out of here at 1:35 this afternoon. All the other flights have multiple layovers."

"Okay," Sean grumbled, "…just get here as soon as ya can. In the meantime, I'll keep checking me networks for news."

"Sean?"

"Aye?"

"I can't bring any weapons…."

"Damn Westen, ya been away far too long, if ya think a Glenanne can't get their hands on some serious fireworks!" Sean let loose an indignant cackle, as he hung up the phone.

Michael clicked off his cell phone and tossed it on his desk. Glancing at his watch, he realized it was already after 9 a.m. He needed to get moving, if he was going to arrive at the airport by noon. Retrieving his phone, he dropped it into the pocket of his jeans and set off in search of Sam.

* * *

_The rustling of plastic woke her this time. Her head was still pounding, and every muscle in her body ached. She tried to swallow against the dryness in her throat, but only succeeded in evoking a soft, strangled cough. The rustling sound immediately ceased, and all she heard around her was silence. She had no idea where she was, except bound and secured to a firm surface. She squinted against a bright light flooding in from a doorway off to her right side. The brightness caused her head to throb more intensely, and she swallowed back a soft sob before the sound could be forced from her tongue. As she listened for any noise around her, she heard the shuffling of footsteps in the distance, then the scrapping of wood against the ground. She could detect the passing of dark shadows before her closed eyes, as they broke the intense light streaming in from the open door. The footsteps grew closer, followed by whispers. She caught bits and pieces of words here and there._

"_Ya need to get her into a crate…transfer to boat…."_

"_Authorities all around…."_

"_Get her covered…needs sedative…."_

"_Almost out, stupid infirmary tech…."_

"_Wait until…sailing…Ireland…."_

_Ireland? The word sent shivers down her spine. Wherever she was now, she was clearly headed back home, but why? The voices moved closer still, leaning over her; she could smell the sweat from their bodies and the coffee on their breaths._

"_Come on, pick her up!"_

"_What crate ya planning to use?"_

"_The little one over there."_

"_Ya think she'll fit…it's awfully small!" _

"_We'll just scrunch her up in a ball…make her fit. I don't want no port authorities getting suspicious about a big crate being loaded on a fishing trawler." A large hand grabbed her shoulder, fingers biting into her sensitive skin._

"_Hey! Speak of the devil, port inspector headed this way!"_

"_Here, throw this over her and push the crates closer together."_

_The light from the doorway disappeared, as a heavy plastic tarp dropped down all around her. The sound of wood scrapping against metal echoed close to her head, and then there was relative silence again, as the footsteps thudded away. A port, did they say she was at a port? If only she could yell for help, or get some attention. She opened her mouth to cry out, but words wouldn't come. Her mouth and lips were as dry as the Sahara, her oversized tongue cemented to her palate. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't make a noise. She tried to kick out with her feet, but her ankles were tightly lashed. Her right hip ached with even the gentlest movement. The voices came back, this time with a third._

"_Look, you promised to have her crated and ready to go when we landed. I don't want to get caught up in whatever illegal trade you got going on. I only agreed to this deal as a favor to a friend, and that was before I knew you were trafficking in human lives. Now get her in that blasted crate and off my plane, before that inspector gets any more curious!"_

"_Damn yanks!"_

_She knew that voice! Where had she heard it before? It was definitely Irish, but she couldn't quite place it._

"_Come on, don't just stand there, ya fool!"_

"_Hey, who ya calling a fool? If my da were alive…."_

"_Well, he's not, now is he? No! He's down below sucking the flames with the devil! And unless ya want to join him sometime soon, ya better shut up and help me wrap her in the tarp."_

"_I thought she was going in the crate?"_

"_She is, ya fool! But if we wrap her first, the inspector won't get suspicious if he checks out the crate. We'll just throw some more tarps on top and tell him they're cover from the rain."_

_She was tossed from side to side as the tarp was wrapped around her. She had a momentary sense of panic when the plastic covered her face, before she heard a knife cutting slits in the material. A large pair of hands grabbed onto her shoulders and another her feet, as she was lifted from the ground. She briefly felt herself suspended mid air, before being unceremoniously dropped into a hard wooden crate on her backside. She felt a bruise forming on her hip, as bone met solid surface with a thud. Her upper torso was torqued around, until her head impacted her knees. Her lower legs bent back at a sharp angle. She attempted to strike her foot against the box, but she was so tightly wedged, there was no room to move. She felt the weight of more tarps falling in upon her and was thankful when rough hands reached in to create an air tunnel for her to breath. A lid was knocked firmly into place atop the crate, the pounding of fists making her head throb even more. She felt the crate being lifted and carried away. It swayed as they walked across the metal floor of the cargo plane. She was jostled from side-to-side, as they descended the stairs and then dropped her onto the tarmac below. She groaned, as she made impact with the ground, pain searing through her lower shoulder and hip. Unable to move or call for help, she closed her eyes and drifted back into a drug-induced oblivion, determined to save her strength until needed for an escape._

* * *

Arriving in the kitchen, Michael found Sam cleaning up the last of the dishes from breakfast. "Hey, you didn't need to do that, Sam. I would've cleaned everything up when I was done with Sean."

"No big deal," Sam shrugged, "…so how's Fiona's brother taking the news?"

"I've been forewarned to mind my p's and q's," Michael reached for a towel to dry the dishes draining in the sink.

Sam rinsed the soapy water down the drain then reached out to dry his hands on the towel. "You gonna need a ride to the airport?"

"No," Michael shook his head, "…I can always leave my car in long term parking. Besides, don't you need to get back to Elsa?"

"Oh jeez," Sam checked his watch, "…the hospice nurse was supposed to leave 20 minutes ago." He looked Michael over from head to toe, sizing him up to decide if he should really leave him alone.

"I'll be fine, Sam…." Michael's cell rang, cutting short his comment. He pulled the phone from his pocket, not recognizing the number. "Hello?" Michael listened to the voice on the other end, as his eyes grew wide with worry.

Sam stood his ground beside Michael, unsure of what had shaken his friend's calm demeanor. Michael nodded his head, but remained silent. Finally he pulled the phone from his ear and covered the receiver.

"Hey Sam, I gotta take this…it's Deputy Director Woodrow's office."

"Jeez," Sam whistled, "…when it rains it pours. Listen buddy, I'll get out of your hair. If you need anything, and I mean anything, give me a call. I'll keep an eye on Maddie while you're gone. By the way, did you mention Fi's disappearance…."

"No!" Michael quickly replied, while he held for the director. "I'll call from Ireland once I have more information. Thanks Sam! I'll keep you in the loop. Hopefully, I'm back in a couple of days with Fi."

"Sure thing, Mikey," Sam clasped a palm to his friend's shoulder. "Be safe…and remember to duck, if a Glenanne gets too close with a gun!" Sam chuckled to himself trying to lighten the mood.

Michael smiled back, "Thanks…ah, Deputy Director Morrow, how are you, sir?"

Sam waved goodbye and headed out the door, hoping Michael found better news in Ireland than the Baker family received that morning. His own cell began to ring, as he opened the front door. Taking note of his home number, Sam hustled out the door.

Michael listened as the Deputy Director spoke for five minutes straight without allowing Michael the chance to offer a single word, other than, "Yes sir." Glancing at his watch, as he continued to listen, he wandered back to the master bedroom to gather his toiletries and things for the trip to Ireland. Laying his tote on the bed, he realized he was hardly packed for a rescue mission in Ireland. Shrugging, he placed the few casual garments he brought into the tote, figuring he could pick up something more once he got to Ireland. He then went in search of a small suitcase for some of Fiona's things. Finding what he needed in their closet, he selected a random assortment of jeans, sweaters, shirts and shoes from her closet. He continued to gather her bath products from the shower and then proceeded to their dresser.

As the Deputy Director began to ask more probing questions, Michael dropped his task to give his full attention to the conversation. He walked back to kitchen, pouring the remaining coffee into his mug and dropped into a chair at the kitchen table. Twenty minutes later, the conversation was done and Michael felt more at ease than he had in a long time. Director Woodrow had been a field agent in the prime of his career, when Michael was first recruited for the agency. Michael had always found the man to be fair and honest in his dealings. As the Director moved up the infrastructure of the agency, he had taken a liking to Michael, as an agent with a reputation for achieving success. During the five years he was burned and completely out, Director Woodrow was one of the few to keep an eye on the situation, and was eventually integral in helping Michael to find his way back in. His ongoing relationship and good standing with Director Woodrow was one of the reasons Michael had dismissed the orders from his current boss in London.

Noticing the time on the oven clock, he jumped from his seat to finish up his preparations for travel. Fiona's purse caught his eye, and he rummaged through the assortment of objects on the table. He collected her wallet and the miscellaneous paperwork, setting them aside. He didn't want to be found in possession of anything labeling her by the name Fiona Glenanne. Should…no when, he corrected himself, he found Fi, he didn't want them to have any difficulty getting back out of the country. The name Glenanne was sure to raise red flags throughout Ireland. They'd already had her official passport authorized as Fiona Westen through the CIA, which for the most part, prevented any questions related to her lengthy Interpol file. However, travel to and from Ireland would most likely prove to be a more dangerous task. They could survive on his credit cards alone. He placed her driver's license with the name Westen in his own wallet, then collected a few other of her personal items into her purse. He caught site of the lipstick tube at the far end of the table, shoving it into the purse on a whim.

Running back to the bedroom, he worked quickly to finish packing their clothes. He hesitated a moment at her drawers in their bureau, feeling as if he was invading her privacy. Under different circumstances, he wouldn't have felt comfortable infringing on her space. Tossing the thought aside, he pulled open her lingerie drawer and began to leaf through her undergarments. He slowed in his task, as the soft, feminine silken garments brushed against his skin. He lifted a matching set from the drawer, staring at the ivory silk adorned with delicate lace and a bow. He hadn't remembered seeing the set before, although he wasn't sure if it was because it was new, or if he just hadn't paid attention. He caressed the soft material imagining it on his wife. The mental image sent him reeling, and he backed up quickly to the bed, before his legs could collapse. Staring at the lingerie, he wondered if he'd ever have the chance to see it modeled on his wife. Tears immediately sprang to his eyes at the thought he could lose her forever due to his own inattention and negligence. Blinking back the moisture, he chided himself for focusing on failure rather than on success. He stuffed the lingerie into her suitcase, before haphazardly tossing in a few extra undergarments and sleepwear. Just as he was ready to close the luggage, his eye caught sight of her silver bracelet on the nightstand. He retrieved the jewelry and added it to her growing pile of personal belongings.

_**'*'**_

* * *

05:30  
Wednesday Morning  
October 25, 2017  
Dublin Airport

Michael de-boarded the plane at the Dublin Airport. He'd used his mileage credits to upgrade to first class, thus having a much more enjoyable flight than his last one from London to Miami. His seatmate was a businessman this time, who was just as intent on catching a few hours of sleep as Michael. Feeling more rested than he had in the last few days, he was happy to be on solid ground in the same country as his wife. At least, he hoped Fiona was in Ireland by now. He exited the security gate of the terminal in search of baggage claim, but was intercepted on his way by Sean and Cullen. They hollered out his name, as he walked past them in a daze.

"Michael!" Sean called a third time, before Michael glanced his way.

Michael smiled at the two brothers, extending a warm hand of greeting. "I didn't expect to see you here, Cullen."

"Ya think I wouldn't come to rescue me sister?" Cullen accepted the handshake then pulled Michael in for a manly hug, slapping him on the back.

"Sean," Michael extended his hand. Sean grabbed hold with more force than was necessary, making Michael wince under the pain.

"Glad to see ya finally showed up, Westen," Sean released his grip, pointing the way to the car.

"I, ah," Michael paused in place rather than follow Sean, "…I need to go by baggage claim."

"What are ya, some kind of fashion model now," Sean flashed him an indignant grin, "…ya have ta travel with extra luggage. I thought you were just sneaking in and sneaking out."

Michael shifted his tote onto his shoulder to free up a hand, then started toward baggage claim, "Talk to your sister about that one, the suitcase is for her. I travel light," Michael pointed to his tote and leather satchel. "Speaking of which, I may have traveled a little too light from…."

Sean cut him off with a glare, "Why'd ya bring Fiona a suitcase? Ya planning on smuggling her back home?"

"Because I doubt O'Neill gave her time to pack, when he abducted her," Michael let his own sarcasm drip through.

"Knock it off, Sean," Cullen smacked his older brother on the back, "…give the guy a break. He's just worried about his wife."

"If he was so worried," Sean began grumbling under his breath, before Michael silenced him with a glare.

"Which bag's Fiona's?" Cullen asked, as he headed to the conveyor belt.

"Brown one, small with a black label," Michael offered, before pulling Sean aside. "So, what does Cullen know about Fiona and me?"

"Nothing…you should thank your lucky stars," Sean scowled at Michael, "…I decided to keep it friendly, until me sister is found, then all bets are off."

"Look Sean," Michael tried to ease the strain, "…I told you we were having some problems, but that doesn't mean I don't love…." Cullen's arrival with bag cut off the remainder of Michael's comment.

"Come on then," Sean waved at the pair, "…time's a wasting, and we got work ta do." He headed out the terminal doors, in search of the car.

As the trio arrived at Sean's car, Cullen opened the door, jumping into the back seat. Michael followed Sean around to the back to put the luggage in the trunk. Once the luggage was secured, Michael turned back to Sean to ask about further intel, when Sean flattened him with a right hook. The punch sent Michael sprawling to the gravel. Michael gingerly touched the growing bruise on his left cheek and glowered at Sean through incensed eyes.

"What the hell was that for?" Michael growled, as he smacked away Sean's offer of a hand up.

"Just making me opinion heard," Sean flashed him an impious grin, before offering his hand again. "I'll refrain from further opinions and damage, until we have me sister back safe and sound." His grin became more menacing, "But once I talk to her, if she confirms ya hurt her…well then…."

"I'd never hurt her," Michael stood up, brushing the dirt from his jeans, "…how dare you think I would lay a hand on her!"

"I wasn't thinking of your hands, 'cuz I know me sister would lay ya flat if you so much as tried," Sean leaned in closer, so only Michael could hear, "…but if I find out ya cheated on her. So help me…."

"Sean," Michael pinned him in all seriousness, "…I swear to you, there has never been anyone else, since I first laid eyes on your sister. Even when we were apart after Ireland, there was never anyone…."

"Just make sure it stays that way," Sean jabbed his index finger into Michael's chest. "And remember," Sean smiled sweetly, "…I'm the nice one! Quinn and Grady won't be so forgiving."

Michael rolled his eyes, wishing he had the assistance of the old Westen team on this particular mission. He'd forgotten how loud and rowdy the Glenanne crew could be. Remembering back to the "old days," he thought Fiona's antics were hard to control, but they were nothing compared to the four Glenanne boys. Egan was the only sane one of the lot! Of course, the fact that Father Egan was also a priest might have had something to do with his gentler demeanor. And he didn't even want to think about Fiona's mother, she was more of a spitfire than her daughter could ever pretend to be. There was never any doubt who ruled the roost in the Glenanne house, and rule she did, with an iron fist. Even the boys knew not to push Ma Glenanne too far, when her Irish ire was stoked and heated. Fi's father had learned early on to hold his peace and allow Eireen Glenanne the final say with the seven children. Although, Michael had quickly surmised Da held the final sway in more private matters. He was the strong silent type, a noble trait, which the remainder of the Glenanne tribe somehow never seemed to acquire.

"So, where are Quinn and Grady this fine day," Michael asked, his interest now piqued.

Sean clamped an arm around his brother-in-law's shoulder, pulling him tight to his side. When Michael peered into Sean's face, a chill ran down his spine at Sean's taunting expression. "Funny ya should ask, Westen. Grady's off running down a couple of tips down near Cork, and Quinn stayed back to acquire the necessary, ah…'fireworks'." Sean's eyes sparkled with mischief, "Plus, he's helping Ma get your breakfast on the table. Did I mention Ma is expecting ya promptly?"

Michael swallowed hard; Ma Glenanne was not the way he'd planned on starting his day, especially sans Fiona. She could be a fierce enemy of anyone who dared allow harm to come to one of her brood. He was none too thrilled to be partaking in a meal hosted by the Glenanne matriarch without Fiona to run interference. Especially, since he was the responsible party who'd allowed the bastard O'Neill to abduct her only surviving daughter. He hoped Sean hadn't mentioned their marital difficulties; otherwise the likelihood of him surviving breakfast was remote at best, never mind living long enough to rescue his beloved wife. It had taken a couple of years after their marriage for Eireen Glenanne to accept an American into the family, especially one who dared to marry her precious daughter in a civil ceremony down at city hall. He still wasn't sure Ma accepted their nuptials as legit, since they hadn't occurred in the Catholic Church under the auspices of a properly ordained priest, then throw in the fact that he was an American spy; although, to date Fiona hadn't had the gall to mention that little tidbit to her mother. No, that little surprise was safely guarded between Sean and Pa Glenanne, at least he prayed they'd maintained his secrecy, otherwise breakfast was going to be a painful affair.

"Hey Michael, ya coming or what?" Sean called out. "Standing around the airport parking lot with ya head in the clouds isn't gonna do much to rescue ya wife!"

"Sorry," Michael muttered back, opening the car door and sliding inside.

* * *

_She roused to a gentle rocking sensation. As her sensorium began to clear, she shivered in the cool surroundings. A light breeze blew softly across her face making her chapped cheeks burn at its gentle touch. She lulled her head to the side, trying to escape the prickling sensation on her skin. Her eyes fluttered open, squinting into the dark sky. She had no idea where she was or how she'd gotten there. She strained to sit up and survey the larger landscape, but ropes constrained her every movement. The breeze quickly escalated to cold gusts, jarring her body to and fro along the hard floor. Her teeth chattered in the frigid air, the repetitive drumming sending shards of pain to her skull. She longed for the comfort of her bed and the warmth of the goose down duvet. A cold misty rain began to fall, enveloping her body in dampness, adding to her overall distress. Where was she? Why couldn't she remember? Her brain screamed over and over in fear. She tried to remain quiet, stilling her chattering teeth. Waves lapped all around her, and her panic began to build. Why was she on a boat? Who had restrained her? Voices? She could hear someone talking in the distance._

"_How much longer 'til we're on shore?"_

"_Couple hours, I reckon…long as the sea remains calm."_

"_Ya expecting a storm? Those clouds look mighty ominous," the voice coughed in the cold, damp air._

_She thought the voice sounded familiar, but couldn't place it with a face. She curled upon herself, trying to minimize her exposure to the elements. Her muscles continued to shake and shiver in the cold, sending pain signals all the way to her core._

"_Lucky for us the girl stayed out. I was afraid we'd run out of the sedative," a menacing laugh followed the words._

_It was the same voice, as before. The laughter nearly caused her to pass out with fear. Who was he? Why couldn't she remember? Her brain taunted her over the loss. Michael! She needed to find Michael! Where was he? She fought for any recent memory, as an anchor from her fear. Elsa, she remembered caring for Elsa. But why would she be on a boat?_

"_What about my payment? I told ya it was due, when the boat set sail?_

"_You'll get it soon enough!"_

"_I'm not going any further, until ya pay up! If you've no funds, then the whole lot of ya can go overboard and swim to shore," the first voice once calm and gentle, now became more demanding and shrill. An evil chuckle followed, "And good luck surviving the swim ta shore in these frigid waters, that's if the fishes don't get ya first!"_

"_I told ya you'd get ya money! I don't have it on me just now, but after the sale…."_

"_We're not going any further without some form of payment!"_

"_Hold ya horses, mate…I might just have something better than money!"_

"_What's better than money, ya idiot? We agreed upon a fair sum, and I'm not taken some damaged goods as payment, even if she's nice to look at!"_

_Fiona's body went numb at his words. Was he talking about her? Was she the damaged goods? What were they planning on selling anyway? She swallowed hard, but her empty stomach revolted under the stress. She quickly rolled to her side, as she retched over and over again with dry heaves. Her throat was so dry it hurt to swallow._

_The noise alerted her capturers, and the hefty thud of footsteps forewarned of their arrival. Heavy breathing sounded all around her, as three men loomed over her in a menacing pose. She blinked to clear her vision, adjusting her eyes to the darkness of the early dawn. Jumping from one face to another, her eyes locked on her final capturer and her blood ran cold._

"_Well, hello sweetheart…looks like you're finally awake! I was hoping you'd sleep through the entire journey after our last fateful encounter, but this might be even more fun. Aye, I can see the fear in your eyes! Where's your man folk now?" O'Neill peered all around him, then released a sinister laugh, "Looks like ya on your own this time. No Michael Westen to ruin my plans!"_

_Fiona tried to speak, but she couldn't push the words past her parched throat. Her eyes glowed with anger. Her muscles tensed._

"_Ah, Miss Glenanne, or is it Mrs. Westen? You're not so fierce and mouthy, when left standing on your own!" He laughed in merriment, until the cold weather made him cough. Once he'd calmed down, he derided her, "Got nothing ta say, sweetheart? I thought you'd put up more of a fight!"_

"_Bas-sard!" She crooked out the words with force, sapping all of her energy._

"_Now, there's me Fiona! By the way," he knelt down beside her, "…ya got something I need." He wrenched her bound arms toward him and tightly gripped her left hand. "I saw this little beauty right away and knew it'd come in handy."_

_He gripped her engagement and wedding rings, twisting them up her finger. She clasped her fingers tightly, digging her nails into her palm._

"_Now, don't be fighting me, Fiona…or I'll break ya hand," he motioned for one of the other men to help. Between the two of them, they pried open her ring finger, pulling the rings free along with a patch of skin from her knuckle. She glared at O'Neill, trying to form words. "What's da matter, sweetheart…cat got ya tongue?" He laughed at her bondage, her helplessness and her pain._

"_Hey, Reggie, get her some water! I 'spect she's more than a wee bit dehydrated after the last four days. "Ya thirsty, missy?"_

_The man named Reggie, knelt beside her with a cup offering her a drink, but she turned away. Despite repeated attempts, she refused to ingest the cool liquid. "She won't take it," he shrugged._

"_Give it ta me, ya fool!" O'Neill grabbed the cup sending half it's content sloshing over Fiona's body. O'Neill bent down again, holding the cup to her mouth. "Ya going ta drink one way or another. I'll not have ya dying on me, before I can auction ya off!"_

_Fiona's eyes momentarily widened in fear, before she clamped down on her emotional response. She cinched her lips together tightly, refusing to drink._

"_Now see there," O'Neill growled, "…here I was trying ta be nice and ya get all uncooperative and spiteful."_

"_Reggie," O'Neill bellowed over his shoulder, "…get over here and pinch her nose. That'll get her mouth open!"_

_The other man complied with the brute's orders. Just as Fiona opened her mouth for a quick breath, O'Neill poured the water down her throat. Fiona seized up, as fits of coughing and sputtering rose from the depths of her lungs. The movement made her gag, and she retched even harder, as the ingested water flew from her mouth, dripping down her chin and neck. She fought to catch her breath, each gasp drawn from somewhere deep in her toes, before rattling in the back of her throat. Tears sprung to her eyes, but still she refused to give in. O'Neill demanded another cup of water, this time Fiona allowed him to pour a small amount into her mouth. As he preened with haughty victory, she spit the mouthful back in his face. He dropped the cup, launching to his feet then veered back and backhanded her across the cheek. Fiona stared back impassively, before breaking into a sneering grin. Anger boiling over, O'Neill kicked the toe of his boot into her side, eliciting a strangled grunt._

_Poking a finger into her chest, the bastard roared, "Don't test me, sweetheart…I'm in control here, and I've got plenty more where that came from! I don't care one wit if you're battered and bruised, when I hand ya over to ya fate!"_

_Fiona lie curled on her side gasping for air, her right arm splinting her bruised ribs. Her head was pounding, acid burned the back of her throat and her ribs ached with each strangled breath. She closed her eyes and tried desperately to block out her surroundings. Michael's face flashed before her eyes, dancing at the edges of her consciousness. "Hold on," he called out to her, "…whatever happens, don't give up!"_

"_Michael," she silently mouthed his name, imagined his fingers stroking her bruised skin. In the background, she caught bits and pieces of conversation._

"_Take these damn things as temporary payment and get me to the shore already!"_

"_What do I want with some rings? Ya promised me cold hard cash!"_

"_You'll get ya cash after the auction! In the meantime, that diamond is worth three times what I promised to pay ya! I don't care what ya do with the bloody thing…give it ta your wife on ya anniversary, or sell it for the money, I don't really care! Just quit hounding me about ya bloody cash!"_

"_There'd better be money in the end of this journey, that's all I gotta say!"_

_Fiona willed her mind to block out their voices. She concentrated on Michael's face, his deep blue eyes, the smell of his skin, the tender softness of his touch, and everything around her went blank._

* * *

Michael watched as Quinn loaded artillery into the trunk of both his and Sean's cars, marveling at how quickly a Glenanne could amass enough firearms to equip a small army. Fiona's parents waited in the wings to wish everyone Godspeed in their quest. Cullen reached for the basket of food his mother had prepared for the trip. She glanced Michael's way gracing him with a forced smile. Breakfast had been an uncomfortable affair. Eireen Glenanne wanted to know why she hadn't heard from her daughter and son-in-law in months, somehow intuitively sensing the hidden strain in their marriage. She quizzed Michael repeatedly on how O'Neill had managed to get past him to abduct her daughter, making it abundantly clear she expected him to bring Fiona home unmarred by a single bruise or mark. Michael returned the matriarch's smile with a more pleasant version of his own, when all he really wanted to do was get on his way. The quicker they learned of Fiona's whereabouts, the quicker she would be back in his arms.

Da Glenanne wondered over to the car, reaching out to grasp Michael's shoulder. "Hang in there, son. I have faith in ya, just bring our girl home safe and sound." He pulled Michael into his arms, offering a hug of encouragement. Michael felt himself willingly return the hug. It had been a long time, since he'd honestly respected and loved an older man like a father. Patrick Glenanne proved to be more of a dad to him than his own father had ever been.

"Thank you, sir," Michael pulled back to look him in the eye, "…I promise to bring her home, or die trying."

"Now, none of that, my boy," Da Glenanne smiled with tears shining in his eyes, "…I want both of ya back. Neither one of ya are any good without the other. Fiona was miserable in the years ye was gone, and I know for a fact, ya didn't do so well yourself."

Michael studied the ground, before his eyes flickered back toward Fiona's Da, "You're speaking the truth there. Despite my best efforts to the contrary, I'm nothing without your daughter. I really love her, sir." Michael glanced away, still finding it hard to say those words around others.

"I know ya do, son," Patrick Glenanne reached up to gently pat his son-in-law's cheek. "Now be gone with ya!"

The three Glenanne boys loaded into the cars with Michael on their heels. Michael was told to ride shotgun with Sean, while Cullen rode along with Quinn. Michael wasn't too happy about the travel arrangements. He wasn't relishing spending the next several hours arguing with Sean about his marriage. After all, he reckoned, some things between a husband and wife should remain private. He doubted Sean understood how badly Fiona had taken the loss of their child, and he wasn't any prouder of his own behavior in the last two years. With the trip now underway, Michael reached for the map of Ireland trying to estimate the distance and time required to reach Cork.

They had heard from Grady just as the family finished up breakfast. Word on the street was O'Neill planned to offer Fi on the auction block for a hefty sum. Even after a 10-year absence from Ireland, Fiona Glenanne still had a long list of enemies willing to watch her suffer hideous pain. O'Neill always had been and still was the worst of the lot. He shuddered when he thought of all Fiona probably endured in the last four days of the bastard's captivity. Michael swore to himself, if so much as a single strand of hair were injured on her beautiful head, he would extract the ultimate price from O'Neill's hide. He didn't care if O'Neill survived to be apprehended and transported back to Whitemoor Prison in England. Death was too good for that SOB!

Michael tried to quell his vengeful thoughts and focus on the mission. He needed to be in control of all his faculties, if he was going to bring Fi home alive. Home, he liked the sound of that word. HOME. Just he and Fiona back in their private abode in Miami. Looking down at the map in his hand, Michael studied the terrain around the port city of Cork. In his previous kidnapping attempt, O'Neill had planned to take Fiona to Northern Ireland. Having destroyed most of his contacts in Belfast after his arrest, O'Neill had shifted his current operation to the southern border of Ireland. Michael and the Glenanne boys had no idea where or when they planned to arrive, but Grady had learned the O'Neill party was travelling by ship somewhere in the general vicinity of Cork or one of its outer borders. The auction was set for Friday, which meant they had only a day, or so, to rescue Fi before she met an untimely fate. Michael estimated they had a 3-4 hour drive to Cork, which would put them into the city by mid afternoon, if traffic remained light; from there they would rendezvous with Grady for more specific information.

They'd driven along in silence for the first 45 minutes of the trip. Michael watched the scenery fly by and allowed himself to drift off in a trance. The Irish countryside took him back to his first assignment in the country, where he met his wife. He couldn't believe it had been over eighteen years, since their introduction. It seemed like just yesterday, when he'd been tasked with bringing down an Irish arms dealer. He'd been watching her from a distance for a while, when the time came to cultivate her as his asset. He never intended for them to get so involved, their relationship had been frowned upon by the Agency. But the first time he took her in his arms for an introductory dance, he knew he was gone. He'd never met another woman like his Fiona, not before that first fateful dance in a Belfast pub, and certainly not after. He was engaged to Samantha at the time. He figured a relationship with Sam would be straightforward and easy. Samantha and he were created from the same mold, they liked the same things and worked the same way; it made life uncomplicated and simple. So when she had proposed, he accepted without much thought. Samantha would be there at the end of a mission, someone to fulfill his physical needs without all the emotional complexities and entanglements of love. After his terrible childhood, he hadn't really planned on getting married, but with Sam it just seemed natural.

Then he'd met Fi!

He remembered telling her once, that their relationship was far from easy. That revelation had been true from the start. They disagreed about everything, fought constantly, but somehow managed to love even more. They seemed to thrive on the conflict, as if it were their life's blood. Uncomplicated and simple didn't seem so important after Fi. He'd been absolutely distraught when he was forced to leave her in Ireland. He told Fi his cover was blown, and he had to get out for both their safety. Of course, that wasn't exactly true. His cover had been blown, and he had been ordered out, but he was determined not to leave her behind. His mind had conjured up all manner of plans for their escape. He'd even cooked her a final dinner hoping to discuss and hash out a decision for their future, when Card had arrived, dragging him from her door. His trainer bit into him with the force of a bulldog, beating away every excuse Michael offered, tossing aside his every plan. He'd been dragged away kicking and screaming just in the knick of time to save both their lives. Card finally convinced him to make a clean break. Left behind keepsakes, names and notes, while sentimental, only increased the danger for covert operatives and assets. The one thing he'd never been able to give up was her number. Card had no idea he kept it. He'd stashed it in a hidden compartment of his wallet. Over the years, he'd studied it, caressed it, and wondered about the 'what ifs.' It had been that small connection, which brought them full circle and landed them both in Miami. He fought her every attempt to reconnect, countered her every advance for a relationship, until that first time in the loft. He knew as soon as his lips had touched hers, there was no way to leave her behind again. He had tried in the intervening years between Ireland and Miami, valiantly in fact, but it had all been a lie. And when he'd almost lost her to O'Neill the first time, he knew there was no going back. His heart belonged to her, and hers had long since taken up permanent residence within him. The last couple of years of married life had been far from easy. They both made mistakes, though by his calculation, he bore the greater lot. Despite all their mishaps and misdirects, he wouldn't give up their life for anything. He remembered telling her after Samantha's visit that _"you don't marry someone, when you're in love with somebody else."_ Well, the corollary was just as true. You don't abandon or divorce someone, when you're still in love with her. Now he just needed to find her and convince her to stay.

He withdrew the photo of them from his pocket. Starting at the picture, he tried to imagine his world without Fi. It was impossible to fathom. He rubbed his thumb over the surface of her face. He swore he could feel the softness of her skin. Smell the fragrance that was so uniquely her. And if he listened close enough, he could hear her calling his name. _"Michael!"_

"So what really happened between the two of you?" Sean's voice broke the spell, and Michael was abruptly forced back into the present.

"Told you…things. I don't really want to talk about it."

"Despite my earlier antics," Sean flashed him a bemused smile, "…I know it's not all your fault. I lived with me sister for years…remember?"

Michael stared at the photograph in his hand, speaking in a haunting tone. "Things kind of fell apart about two years ago."

"The baby?" Sean asked intuitively.

Michael nodded, a deep sadness settling into his eyes, "Yeah, we hadn't planned the pregnancy, but we both wanted her. Fi took the loss really hard. She kind of closed off from the rest of the world. From me, from my mom, Sam and all our friends."

"Yeah, I imagine it hit her pretty hard…especially since she's been through it before with Claire," Sean stared straight ahead, a pensive expression on his face.

"Yeah, it took me a while to remember about the loss of your sister. I think Claire's death compounded her grief for the baby." Michael turned to Sean, a shadow of overwhelming sadness enveloping his handsome face. "It wasn't until the day I found her caressing Claire's baby blanket that I tied Fiona's devastating grief to the loss of your sister."

Sean's eyes flicked toward Michael, before scurrying away in retreat, "My sister…aye, Claire's death was hard on all of us, but most especially Fiona."

When Michael remained silent, Sean probed a little deeper, "How about you? How did you handle the loss?"

"Not much better," Michael's voice broke, as he swallowed down the lump in his throat. "I didn't want her to feel responsible, so I tried to hide my pain."

"Typical male response," Sean chuckled with a shake of his head, "…doesn't matter if you're a Westen or a Glenanne. I know when me wife and I lost our first young'un; I tried to hide my grief. Ya know, be the macho stoic and strong type. It didn't help her to heal and nearly drove a wedge between us. We worked hard to get our marriage back on track, and now three kids later, life is pretty good."

"I didn't know you had lost a child?" Michael stared at his brother-in-law appreciating his honest confession.

Sean shrugged, "We mostly kept it quiet. She wasn't that far along. I don't know if Fiona even knew about the pregnancy. It was me Da that helped me cope. We spent a lot of time talking about Claire, and how that loss affected him. He's a good listener, if ya need to talk."

"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind," Michael's eyes drifted back to photo of Fiona and him.

"So, that's what this is all about? The loss of the baby?"

"No, it goes deeper than that. As I said, I didn't handle the loss well either, but Fiona really shut down. She scared me. She wouldn't talk to anyone, least of all me. When I was gone on assignments, she wouldn't take my calls. I finally had Sam keep an eye on her. His wife, Elsa, has terminal breast cancer. Sam was able to convince Fiona to help with her care. He was my eyes and ears when I wasn't at home." Michael stared out the window, speaking in a haunting voice. "As things got worse, I started screwing up at work. I couldn't concentrate. It got so bad; I even blew a mission. Almost got my entire team killed, luckily, I was the only one injured. Problem is, I took it out on Fi. To this day, she doesn't know how bad things are at work. I got shipped off to the desk job in London to finish up my rehab, although I was pretty sure at the time my field days were done. I thought maybe the distance would give us a much-needed break. Give us a chance to work things out, ya know?"

"So, did it?" Sean chanced a quick glance Michael's direction, before diverting his eyes back to the road.

"Not exactly," Michael sighed heavily, before continuing on. "Fi served me with divorce papers this past Monday. The same day all this whole O'Neill mess hit the fan. He'd already escaped from prison by then and had Fiona in his custody. Maybe if I'd been home, or we'd been talking everyday, I would have known something was amiss sooner."

Sean clucked his tongue to gain Michael's attention, "Sounds like you got some decisions ta make. It's either your marriage or the job. Doesn't seem like living apart is the answer ta your problems."

"I already made my decision," Michael paused for a moment, realizing he hadn't told anyone of his plans, except Director Woodrow. "I'm getting out."

"Of the marriage or the job?" Sean's head whipped around at the unsettling question.

Michael stared at Sean, mouth agape; eyes wide that he would even dare to ask the question, "The job, of course! My marriage is more important than my career. I love her, Sean! I can't imagine living without her!" Tears flashed in his eyes, welling just above his lower lid and giving his eyes a soft sheen.

"Good ta hear," Sean clapped a hand to Michael's shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "I guess we best get her back then and teach that bastard O'Neill what it's like ta mess with the Glenannes and the Westens!"

Michael smiled at Sean, exhaustion written on his face. Between the emotional and physical hurdles of the last few days, he felt like he could sleep for a week. Unfortunately, sleep wouldn't come until Fiona was back in his arms.

Sean pointed to a small shopping area up the road, "What do ya say ta a strong cup of coffee?"

"Sounds good," Michael slipped the photo back into his pocket.

Sean maneuvered the car into the shopping complex, with Quinn and Cullen following behind. As they exited the car, Michael shivered in the cool fall air. He was truly underdressed for real autumn temperatures, his attire more appropriate for October in Miami, than autumn in Ireland. He looked around at the quaint shops in the complex, spying a clothing store at the far end. He asked Sean to pick him up a large black coffee then headed down for a quick trip through the store.

As he passed through the door, he was hit by the soft lilt of Gaelic music. The tune took him back to another time. He and Fiona had spent the evening at The Black Sands Pub. After a hearty dinner of thick Irish stew and soda bread, they'd taken to the dance floor. A group of local musicians were providing the entertainment for the night. Instead of the usual "top 20" hit parade, the local group had regaled the crowd with traditional Irish folk tunes. The patrons joined in the fun, stumbling over lyrics while singing along with the band. Fiona and he spent the entire evening dancing, everything from a traditional jig to the waltz. They danced the night away with the rest of the patrons, refusing to leave the pub even after the last notes of the final Irish ballad had grown soft. The owner had to physically toss them out. He leisurely walked her back to her Belfast apartment, stopping at every window front along the way just to buy a little more together time. Neither of them wanted the evening to end. Loitering near her door, they exchanged small talk and reminisced about their evening. Under the ethereal glow of a full moon, he'd kissed her lightly on the lips then pulled back only to get lost in her eyes. Thinking back now on that perfect night so long ago, he realized it was the first time he admitted to loving her, even if it was a secret pact between himself and the man in the moon. Reaching up to caress her soft cheek, he leaned in to kiss her again. It was as if she felt that same connection to him. The touch of their lips smoldered and ignited, as their pent up passion slowly grew in intensity and boiled over. They fell into each other's arms, neither able to break their bond. She quickly unlocked the door, tugging him over the threshold. They stumbled and tripped through the living room on the way to the back hall. Laughter became their new dancing music, until the utterance of hushed words and soft touches intervened. It was the very first time he'd stayed the night with her. And the next morning, he left without his heart having bequeathed it permanently to her care.

A soft smile played on his lips, as he relived the memory of their first night together. He could feel the light touch of her fingers, as they grazed over his skin in a quest to know his body. His lips discovered that perfect place on her neck that made her hum, and the delicate patch of skin on her lower back, which if touched just right, elicited the most endearing wide-eyed gasp. The scent of her jasmine-fragranced hair filled his nose, overwhelming his senses. It was almost as if he were back in that small worn-out apartment in Belfast with Fiona at his side, when the faint clearing of a voice roused him from his treasured memories.

"May I help ya?" A kindly gray-haired matron asked.

Michael blushed at being caught in a romantic daydream, "I was just looking for some warmer clothing. I'm afraid I arrived from Florida ill-prepared for the autumn weather."

"Aye," the older woman graced him with a pleasant smile, "…I believe we can help ya. Were ya looking for shirts, sweaters or a coat?"

"All of the above, I guess…I'm not sure how long I'll be staying," Michael ran his fingers over the soft weave of a merino wool sweater, then picked up a traditional Aran crewneck, thinking Fi might get a kick out of him dressed as Michael McBride. "I'll take this one and maybe," he reached for a half-zip brown sweater of a more basic design."

"Ah yes," the shopkeeper smiled, "…this one was knitted by one of my locals out of the finest Donegal wool. Will that be all?"

"Umm," Michael looked around the store catching sight of a long-sleeved canvas work shirt. The shirt was a button-up design of soft-washed denim. He added it to his pile, along with two canvas, outdoor-travel vests, one for both him and Fi. As he followed the shopkeeper to the cash register, he took note of a beautiful Aran sweater displayed at the checkout counter. It was a soft cream with zipper closure and a hood. The delicate pattern of cables and diamonds was exquisitely done. He ran his fingers along the cabled border of the sleeve and was amazed at the softness of the fine wool.

"Aye, I see you've found another of my fine treasures," the kindly gray-haired woman beamed. "This one was knitted by a local, as well. Ya have a good-eye for custom-made quality garments. We sell a lot of mass-produced Aran sweaters to tourists who happen along in their travels. They want to take home a memento of Ireland, but don't want to pay the price. They end up buying an 'Irish' sweater that isn't even produced in Ireland," she chuckled at the locals' private joke. "Few customers are willing to pay for true quality, handcrafted knits. This one is a real beauty! The woman who does this knitting is a good friend of mine. She's been knitting for going on 70 years. All of her yarns are handspun from local flocks. None of that cheap imitation wool! And patterns like this one are her own custom design."

Michael took less than five seconds to ponder the purchase, adding it to his collection of clothes. He imagined Fiona was well near frigid in the current autumn temperatures. What better way to warm her up, than a soft wool sweater and the tight embrace of his arms. A bemused smile danced on his lips, as he imagined a leisurely walk through the Irish countryside. Just the two of them, a wool blanket and a picnic basket was all they'd need. It had worked to win her heart 18 years ago, so maybe if he was lucky, it would succeed a second time.

As the shopkeeper rang up his purchases and wrapped them in tissue, she watched the array of emotions spread across the handsome stranger's face. "Looks like you have someone special in mind for that sweater."

"I hope so," Michael's mood dimmed a bit, as he worried about Fiona's survival. "If luck holds out, she'll be wearing it by tonight." He handed over his credit card to pay for the purchases, worry suddenly burning at the edges of his mind. At that exact moment, Sean ventured into the store.

"What's taking ya so long, Michael? We got places to be and I don't want ta run out of daylight."

"Coming," Michael quickly signed the receipt and scooped up his packages. Following Sean out to the car, he glanced at his watch, realizing it was already after noon. "Sorry, I didn't realize I'd been shopping so long!"

"Hope ya found something to wear while we're hunting around the country landscape tonight," Sean handed off a large cup of coffee.

"I, ah…found a couple of things for, um…both Fiona and me. We've both been living in Miami too long; neither of us has a fit wardrobe for cold weather. I packed some jeans and light weight sweater for her, but they won't begin to keep her warm."

Sean started the ignition, before winking at Michael in jest, "Isn't that your job, man? If ya taking proper care of me sister, she shouldn't have much need for sweaters, blankets or such!"

Michael's cheeks burned red with embarrassment. "I don't think this is an appropriate line of conversation to be having with my brother-in-law," he huffed. "Now why don't you get this car in gear!"

The peal of Sean's laughter could be heard over the squealing tires, as the car accelerated on the road. "Ya mean to tell me that Mr. James Bond is embarrassed over a little randy conversation? I thought all you super spies were suave, debonair, romantic types!"

"Drop it, Sean!" Michael growled over the continued din of laughter.

Sean's mirth died out over the next few miles, as silence engulfed the car again. Michael tapped his watch trying to calculate the time. "How much longer?"

"Hour and a half, two," Sean stared straight ahead.

"Have you heard anymore from Grady?"

"No, unfortunately, he hasn't called since breakfast. He was trying to stay under the radar just in case he came across any of O'Neill's cronies. We have a network of sources, but that bastard is less well known around the southern parts. I suspect most of his 'clients'," Sean spit out the distasteful word, "…will be coming down from Belfast and Dublin."

Michael nodded in understanding, "I was really hoping to locate her today, so we could go in before dark for the rescue. I hate to think of her spending anymore time than necessary in that evil sociopath's hands."

"I know," Sean softened his voice, empathy obvious in his tone.

Michael gingerly sipped his coffee, as he went back to studying the landscape of his surroundings. He noticed an exit sign for the route to Kilkeeny and more memories came sputtering back.

They had spent the weekend with her family in Dublin. It had been her first chance to introduce him to her folks. The family had been gracious and welcoming, especially Eireen Glenanne. She seemed to take an immediate liking to Michael, as a serious suitor for her impetuous, headstrong daughter. As the weekend progressed, he'd had to make-up more and more stories about his fictitious family from Kilkeeny, which hadn't been all that difficult, since he'd spent his entire childhood dreaming up the perfect family he so desperately desired. His fictional family was imbued with only the most noble and loving traits, thus being diametrically opposed to the reality of the childhood he'd endured. Fiona had the grand idea to visit his old stomping grounds, before heading back to Belfast. He'd related the story of the death of his only sister at their first meeting, and he'd always maintained his parents had been lost to an automobile accident when he was an older teen. Still, Fiona wanted to see the house where he grew up, the neighborhood he played in and the associates who taught him his advanced knowledge of weaponry. He'd tried unsuccessfully to dissuade her. So come Sunday afternoon, they'd set off in a trek to visit his old haunts. The Agency had created a full profile of his roots, but there was still one significant problem. He'd never actually visited Kilkenny! As they rolled into town, his mind scurried to devise a plan. They happened upon an older section of town with modest abodes. He spotted one not all that different from the house in which he grew up and laid claim to it as his childhood home. Since his fictional family was all deceased, he couldn't envision any difficulties with that simple lie. That was until Fiona wanted to knock on the door and ask for a private tour. He panicked, as she dragged him up the path to the door. The only thing saving his cover had been the absence of the current owners. Fiona had to be contented with a peek through the windows here and there. He'd regaled her with tales of his exploits as a child borrowing heavily from his own adventures with Nate.

Finally, just as they had decided to abandon their excursion into the past, a group of school-aged boys came dashing down the road with BB guns in tow. Fiona asked where they were headed with their trusty weapons in hand. Their jovial reply included details of an old abandoned house routinely used for target practice. She challenged them to a shoot out, which they heartily accepted figuring there was no way a girl could win. The boys lead the way to an enormous wooded property where a two-story abandoned house sat nearly concealed by thick underbrush and shrubbery. Huge trees surrounded the old treasure, arching branches and leaves hanging over its multi-leveled roof. As Michael surveyed the property, he imagined the house was a rare gem in its time. His imagination conjured up a well to do Irish family connected to a thriving business in a bygone era. While now in disrepute with shattered stained glass windows, crumbling brick and a tattered roof, he could envision its beauty in decades past, when children played in the expansive yard and a gardener maintained its elegant hedges and rose garden.

Before he could venture further down the path of his "perfect family" dreams, the first crack of a BB gun rang out shattering yet another window. Several more blasts followed in quick pursuit with nearly equivalent results. Fiona challenged them to hit more and more tricky targets. The boys quickly failed, as their shots fell wide. Fiona borrowed one of the guns, easily hitting the most difficult target. Not to be outdone in the wide-eyed adoration of their small companions, Michael pirated his own gun and hit the exact same targets with practiced ease. The boys boisterously offered their own critique of both Fiona and Michael's skills. It soon devolved into a grudge match, between the two "adult" kids. The boys in general took Michael's side, not yet enamored with the feminine wiles of the fairer sex. When he missed his first target, his fans jeered, especially when Fiona nailed it with a slick over-the-shoulder shot. As the difficulty of each successive target became more extreme, Michael missed every third or fourth shot, but Fiona nary a one. Determined not to be embarrassed by the likes of a "girl," before his male cheering squad, Michael deployed his own personal version of military countermeasures: a stroke of her hair, a caress of her cheek, a nuzzle to the side of her neck, and when all else failed, a covert hand dispatched to the soft skin of her stomach on a reconnaissance mission to regions higher. She made all her shots, except for the last, as an overpowering shudder racked her whole body. Blissfully dazed, it took her a moment to recover, but the subsequent battle that ensued made their first escapade in Miami look like child's play. Thankfully, they'd lost their cheering squad and relocated into the old house, before the final fireworks erupted. They'd spent the next hour cuddling in a vacant room of the old house, discussing their future dreams. It was that event in an old Kilkeeny house, which first introduced Michael to Fiona's panache of violence as foreplay. Of course, several months later, when Fiona had been confronted with the reality of his cover ID, a whole nuther round of violent foreplay had ensued.

"That must be some memory!" Sean interrupted Michael's thoughts.

"Wha…what?"

"Whatever you're thinking about," Sean motioned with his head, "…it must be some AMAZING memory."

"Why do you say that?" Michael feigned ignorance at Sean's inquiry.

Sean shook his head with a face-splitting grin, "Your face is all flushed and ya eyes glazed over. I'd say whatever it is ya conjuring up in that covert mind of yours…best keep it ta yourself. Some things a big brother just shouldn't know!"

Michael diverted his face toward the window, embarrassment flaming bright on his cheeks. Gazing out the window, he replied, "Wasn't anything really, just memories from my first time in Ireland." He glanced back at Sean thoughtfully, "Sometimes I think Fi was happier then…with Michael McBride at her side." His voice effortlessly slipped into his former Irish brogue, "Michael McBride found the time to be carefree and fun…Michael Westen not so much."

Just as Sean was about to respond his cell phone rang. Reaching for the device, he answered it on the second ring, "Sean here."

Michael caught only one-side of the conversation, but it was still enough to identify the caller. He waited impatiently for Sean to hang up, pouncing immediately as the call ended.

"What did Grady say?"

"He's got more details about where O'Neill plans ta dock. Unfortunately, it's not in Cork, but a tiny costal peninsula further southeast. Apparently, O'Neill bribed a local fisherman, Maurice O'Sullivan, ta ferry them across the sea in his fishing trawler to Ballymackean. Grady thinks they'll be docking at the wharf near O'Sullivan's Fish Market."

"How much further than Cork," Michael checked his watch for the umpteenth time that day.

Sean paused to calculate the distance in his head, "Probably a good half hour, 45 minutes beyond Cork, but the area is remote and quite private. It'll be much harder to stage a surprise rescue attack from that venue."

"Damn," Michael cursed his never-ending string of bad luck. "Any idea when they'll make landfall?"

"Not really," Sean shook his head, "…they're expected sometime late afternoon, early evening. I doubt they'll attempt to dock after nightfall…really rough coastal terrain around Ballymackean."

"So, we've a chance to make the wharf before they dock?"

"Slight maybe, if traffic is light and the weather holds out. It'll be close, especially if they make landfall late afternoon." Sean stared out the front windshield, the gears in his mind working feverishly. "I think our best chance for a rescue is at dusk. The fading light will give us some cover, and if we make it before they dock, we can take 'em by surprise. If Grady's source is correct, O'Sullivan went out on his own. That means besides the ship's captain, they'll only be O'Neill, the prison guard and Fiona. If they make landfall before our arrival, who knows how many recruits O'Neill has lined up."

"So are we still meeting up with Grady in Cork?" Michael's nerves were getting the better of him, "I don't want to waste any more time than necessary."

"Hey, who was the one dillydallying around in a clothing store back there?" Sean's anger flared, as both men felt the panicked edge of defeat, if their rescue plan went south.

Michael remained silent for a moment, before answering back, the soft hint of contriteness in his voice. "Yeah, I'll take the blame, right along with everything else. This whole mess is pretty much my fault anyway."

Sean released his pent up frustration on a heavy gust of breath, "Hey, O'Neill's not your fault. Fiona stoked that fire long ago. The only grievance the bastard has with you is stopping this kidnapping seven years ago...oh, and your placing him in prison for life."

The pair rode in silence for the next half hour, before Michael ventured the subject of Grady again. "You didn't mention our rendezvous with Grady…are we still meeting him in Cork?"

"No," Sean answered in a thoughtful voice, "…a little farm north of Watergrasshill outside Cork. The owner is an elderly gentleman once involved in the cause. Knew him from years back. He's an old codger, but still slick as a whistle. He's an integral link in our information network, even at the ripe age of 85 years young. Folks like O'Neill tend ta underestimate him, but they do so at their own peril. We'll met Grady there, so ya can scout the place out."

Michael frowned at Sean's reply, "Why do I need to scout out the farm?"

"'Cuz we figured you and Fiona could escape back ta the farm after the rescue. She'll likely be in no shape ta fight back after four days spent in the captivity of that animal. She's gonna need some rest and recuperation. O'Neill will be hot on your trail, especially if he's had time ta recruit a gang of men. Me and the brothers can hold 'em off for a while, but ya need ta get Fiona out of Ballymackean. Ya can take Quinn's ride, and the four of us will come back in my car. Once ya bunked at the farm overnight, there'll be a motorcycle ta take ya the rest of the way ta Aunt Colleen's. O'Neill and his lookouts will be watching for our cars, but he won't recognize a married couple off vacationing on a motorbike, especially if they're wearing protective helmets. I figure it's your best disguise."

Michael and the Glenanne boys caught up with Grady as planned. The group made it past Cork just before dinner and arrived Ballymackean at dusk. They got directions to O'Sullivan's wharf before crossing the bridge on Cork Street. Leaving their cars a few blocks away, they crossed the grassy terrain on foot as the sun just touched the horizon. As they took cover behind the fish market, Grady's cell began to ring.

"Shut that thing off, before you blow our cover, damn it!" Michael cursed under his breath.

Grady answered before the second ring, quietly listening to the voice on the other end. As he disconnected the call, he motioned out toward the water. "That was one of my sources…the trawler's on it's way in. Should be here in the next 5-10 minutes."

Michael squinted in the waning light, trying to catch a glimpse of the boat. Just as he was about to give up, he caught sight of the rigging in the distance. "Over there guys, 12 o'clock, dead ahead."

Five pair of eyes watched as the fishing boat drew closer in the faint light of the evening sky. The sun had nearly ducked below the horizon, and in the distance porch lights began to burn. Each tick of the clock was against them, as darkness hastened its pursuit. Finally the boat came into dock, a large shadowy figure looming in the night sky.

Sean whispered to Michael from the cover of the building, "All right, this is our best chance. The minute ya see O'Neill disembark with Fiona, we all need ta storm the ship. Michael, Fiona's your responsibility. The rest of us will keep firing on O'Neill and the prison guard hoping ta hold them off long enough for the two of ya to escape ta the safety of the car. Don't wait around for us, take off for the farm as fast as ya can and we'll plan ta rendezvous tomorrow at Aunt Colleen's pub."

Just as the four stepped out from behind the market, a lone figure scurried off the boat. They watched in horror as the person turned around to push a detonator switch causing the ship to explode and erupt into a giant fireball. The figure turned to flee the scene, as Michael rushed forward toward the boat. Sean chased after him tackling him from behind. As Michael fought him off, the other three brothers grabbed hold of the pair from behind.

"Let me go," Michael shrieked, as he thrashed and fought against their restraints.

Sean dove at him a second time, catching him by the shoulders before he could escape. "MICHAEL…STOP! There's nothing ya can do!"

"But Fi," his voice broke on the sound of her name.

"I know, man…I'm upset too!" Sean bellowed back trying to pierce the emotional devastation so obvious on his brother-in-law's face.

"Get off me!" Michael screamed, as he tried to shove the brothers aside.

"THERE'S NOTHING YA CAN DO!" Sean hollered into Michael's ear. "There's nothing…ya…can…do," Sean gentled his voice, as Michael fell to the ground completely defeated.

The Glenanne boys watched, as Michael collapsed in a heap mumbling over and over again in a sobbing voice. "Fi…Fi…Fi…."

'_*****'**_

_To be continued…_


End file.
